


The Reed Fields

by orphan_account



Series: Acadieverse [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 49,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spy prefers not to get too involved with others, but his relationship with Sniper drags him into a conspiracy at the heart of RED and BLU's conflict. One that may cost both teams their lives--and Spy's humanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Spy woke up on his side with adrenaline and pain rushing to his brain like heroin. He gasped raggedly in the dark, eyes darting across the vaguely familiar ceiling. A small window sat above him, adorned by hideously old fashioned curtains. Faint red light showed all the dust and streaks across the pane. Dawn? Dusk? He craned his neck to get a better look at where he was, only to inhale the unpleasant smell of sweaty bed sheets. A bed. He was lying on a bed. The only clean thing in view was a translucent bag of fluid taped to the edge of the cupboard overhead. It hung there like a raindrop and broke the light into a prism.

A make-shift IV?

Everything smelled dusty and stale. Everything was dusty and stale. He spotted a coffee mug still a quarter full with a white film on its surface. It clicked, then. He was in Sniper’s horrid little van.

How humiliating.

“Merde,” he moaned, voice raspy from screaming, and choked when a red tide of agony tore across his palette. Memories of the event rose unbidden. The RED spy’s crafty smile when he started pulling teeth. How it widened when he reached for a light bulb….

And there he was in the RED sniper’s van; living proof the bastard had been right. It was unbearable. Spy swallowed around the blood in his mouth and slowly sat up. The pain nearly made him blackout. He breathed sharply through his nose, determined not to throw up or faint, and risked a glance at his stomach. His jacket and vest had been stripped away, leaving only an unbuttoned white shirt for modesty. Bandages hugged his midsection, mottled by small crimson blots. The RED spy had started skinning him alive while making him watch. Now he lay in a van brimming with filth. He couldn’t decide which particular part of that experience was more unpleasant.

The room began to veer in a dizzying fashion. Spy went limp on the mattress and watched white sparks flicker across the roof, and his eyes shut against his will. He regained consciousness with hands cupping his face.

“Ah!” He blindly elbowed the face hovering over him, only to be rewarded with fingers digging into his shredded cheek.

“Fucking spies. I knew I should’ve let you die.”

The fingers left his face. Spy trembled in agony. Sniper stood scowling above him, coffee in one hand and newspaper tucked under his arm. That barbaric piece of shit. Spy grabbed the window ledge to sit up and the pain rendered him temporarily mute. The constant gush of blood in his mouth was beginning to make him queasy.

Sniper took a seat opposite the make-shift bed. “Don’t even pretend I didn’t warn you, mate. You took a gamble and you lost. Happens to us all.” He flipped open the paper and tried to appear casual. “I won’t help you kill my mates. Got no feelings in this thing, Spy. Nothing for you to grab a hold of.” He inclined his head so his eyes were visible over his sunglasses. “You should know better.”

Spy’s answer was to spit on him.

“Ohh, now you’ve done it,” Sniper growled, set down his coffee, and flung his newspaper away. He ripped Spy out of bed and held him close as he opened the backdoor. “I could’ve left you in there,” he snarled quietly, “you remember that, you little prick.”

Spy staggered when Sniper abruptly turned away, and was sent toppling into the dirt by a kick in the ass. The van door closed with a squeal and a clunk, and he was left to lie there like a whipped cur. If he hadn’t felt on the brink of fainting, he would’ve gone back inside and continued arguing. But involuntary tears pricked at the corner of his eyes and knew he didn’t have the strength to do so. No use facing Sniper when it was impossible to win. Besides, he required more sophisticated care than a savage in the back of a van could provide.

He stood up slowly with the desert blurring around him. A coyote howled in the distance, answered by several more. It felt like he had chewed on knives, which wasn’t far from the truth, but the pain kept him awake. Kept him moving. He glanced skyward to see the moon overhead. It was as thin and curved as a fingernail, and threw enough light across the desert to navigate by. Half-way to BLU base, he had to stop and button up his shirt. His fingers were unsteady and his breath swirled like smoke. He needed a cigarette.

When Spy reached the BLU fortress, it was in a state of lock down. He leaned against the door and groaned. It was all so undignified. Resigned to his fate, he sighed and pounded his fist against the door three times. No answer. He swallowed against a rising tide of nausea and knocked again. Silence. Absolute, infuriating silence.

Oh, mon Dieu. He doubled over and threw up on the ground. It hurt unlike anything in his entire life.

And, of course, of course, that was when the door opened. Astonished silence flooded the air and Spy closed his eyes, mortified.

“Spah?”

He raised his hand for silence and scrubbed the tears and spit from his face. It was horrible. With a steeling breath, he straightened and turned around, and walked past Engineer with as much dignity as the situation allowed. The door clanged shut behind him and he managed to walk eleven steps before leaning against the wall.

“Aw hell, here.” Engineer took Spy’s arm and hefted it over his shoulder. “You look like you got hit by a bus.”

Spy didn’t deign to respond.

The rest of the BLU team were spread out and preoccupied with their evening routines, which Spy was infinitely thankful for. They managed to reach Medic’s room without incident, but the door was closed and the lights were off. Soft, muffled music wafted from inside.

“God dammit,” Engineer muttered. At Spy’s puzzled look, he winced. “Don’t you know? Medic and Heavy are,” he jerked his head towards the door, “y’know…together. Right now.”

Spy groaned and covered his eyes with his hand. He swallowed another mouthful of blood and felt his stomach writhe in defiance. A garbage can sat in the nearby corner and he hurled himself at it before the next wave hit. His timing was impeccable (as always.) He gripped the edges of the garbage can and vomited what was left of his stomach contents into it. A wave of weakness swept through him, limbs resonating with a sense of disembodiment. Why hadn’t he just had the sense to shoot himself and be done with it?

Engineer hovered beside him. “My Gawd in Heaven.” He lifted his hardhat and scratched his scalp. “Guess there’s only one thing to do after all.” He regarded the plain door to Medic’s quarters with undisguised trepidation. “Hell,” he grumbled and knocked loudly, “you owe me, boy.”

“DOCTOR IS BUSY!”

“Sorry to disturb yo—err, him, but it’s important.”

A long, frigid silence flooded the hallway. Spy propped himself upright against the garbage can and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, which came away with a sticky red smear. He inhaled noisily through his noise and tried to keep his jaw unlocked so none of his teeth touched, but his gums continued to throb in tune with his stomach. He rested his forehead on the rim and heaved a strung-out sigh. Was there no end to the night’s theatrics?

The door opened with a sharp clang. Engineer half-turned with an apologetic smile. “Howdy, Heav—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” He spun away, but it was too late. He had received a full view of Heavy sporting nothing but a furious scowl and an unsatisfied erection. Spy dry-heaved into the garbage can in a fit of nausea completely unrelated to torture.

“Vell?” Heavy asked in his low, forbidding Russian burr. Medic’s voice could be heard in the background, lowered in irritation. “Vat is it?”

“Heavy! Get dressed.” Medic shoved him aside, his forehead slicked and expression cold and no nonsense. Engineer hastily pointed to Spy, who was desperately trying to drag himself out of sight. “Ja, I had a feeling I would be seeing him.” He crossed his arms. “Scheisse. Fine, bring him in here. I vill exam him.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Engineer turned Spy around and dragged him back. “I will never forget that sight in all my living days. You damn well get in there!” Heavy appeared (sporting pants) in time to heft Spy up like a ragdoll and carried him into the examination room. “Don’t be hard on him, eh Doc?”

“Ja,” Medic replied flatly and shut the door without another word.

Being lifted so carelessly stretched the skinless patch on Spy’s stomach. The pain was so intense it robbed him of his voice. “Little man is hurt,” Heavy observed, somewhat surprised. “Good thing for you.” He set Spy on the examination table and retreated into the background.

“Enough.” Medic adjusted the light overhead and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He moved to hover over Spy’s head. “Open your mouth.” He brought the light close, then straightened, one eyebrow arched. “Broken glass,” he murmured, “und you are missing teeth.” He tilted his head. “Ze first and second bicuspids are gone…und so are both of your second molars on ze right side.”

“He needs dentist, not doctor,” Heavy grumbled.

“Nein, Heavy,” Medic replied absently, “zis is serious.” He met Spy’s stare and smiled unpleasantly. “I take it you had an encounter with your RED counterpart?”

Spy merely blinked.

“Ah, it must hurt to speak.” Medic’s eyes gleamed. “I am afraid all of it will have to be pulled out before I can use ze medigun.” He turned to Heavy. “Meine Liebe, can you come here? I need you to hold some things.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

Spy copped on a moment too late. He struggled fruitlessly as Heavy put him in restraints and Medic fetched a tray of instruments. Nowhere did he see any anaesthetic; local, general, or otherwise.

“Don’t vorry.” Heavy patted his head as he would a dog about to be neutered. “Doctor knows what he is doing.”


	2. Chapter 2

Spy lit his first cigarette in nearly three days and inhaled deeply with eyes closed and mouth slightly parted. The pain in his mouth had been reduced to a dull ache, easily eclipsed by the rush of nicotine. He exhaled slowly and watched tendrils of toxic blue smoke rise into the air. While the sirens rose to a fever-pitch and marked the evening’s ceasefire, he took another long drag and examined the corpse at his feet. A revenge that had taken the better part of two days to fulfill, but worth the effort.

The RED Spy looked at him with glassy eyes. Spy tilted his head. The last time he had looked, his counterpart had been alive. Ironic that the man should slip into death so quietly when he had intended to make Spy face it choking on bloody glass. He breathed out, mouth shaped into an ‘o,’ as a deep feeling of satisfaction gathered around his shoulders. He could smoke, eat solids, and the fool who had fed him light bulbs lay cooling in the dirt.

Life was good.

He swaggered back to BLU base. Even the brain matter across his trousers couldn’t spoil his mood. The sun was setting and red light gushed across the horizon like blood in water. Although it had been over 40 Celsius, the heat of the day quickly retreated with the sunlight. He crossed the bridge between the forts with slow, deliberate steps despite the reek of stagnant water. RED Sniper’s gaze burned futilely against his back. It had been that way since the night he had woken in that revolting van. They were on non-fucking terms after that little debacle. He smirked and cleaned his butterfly knife suggestively with a handkerchief.

Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but Spy liked to think the air thickened with fury.

“Jesus, man,” Scout swept past him, “you got a laser sight right between your shoulders.”

“Oh?” Spy stopped and looked up at the usual perch Sniper preferred. “Don’t worry. ‘e doesn’t have de balls to shoot me.” The red point flickered across his eyes, then away. A sharp crack echoed in the space between the fortress followed by Scout hitting the ground and screaming. Spy merely took a drag on his cigarette and sought to meet the invisible eyes fixed on his face.

“Fuck! Fuck!” Scout rolled in the dirt like a dog. “He shot me. That douchefag shot me!”

Spy chuckled darkly. “Don’t be so dramatic. You would be pink mist if ‘e caught you with a gun like dat.” He finally turned and examined the youngest member of the team. There was no blood, but the round had blasted a hole through the bridge’s support beam and into the fuse box near the base door. The anger there was clear and it made Spy’s guts tighten with desire. “‘e is fucking with you.”

Scout groaned and clutched his leg. “The hell, man?”

“It’s just a burn.” Spy idly wiped the front of his pants. “You’re not bleeding.”

Another shot exploded through the wooden plank inches from Scout’s nose. He clapped his hands over his ears and swore at the sky. Spy winced at the ringing in his ears, but didn’t acknowledge the shot. He grabbed Scout and stood between the boy and his lover. It was clear that if Spy left him alone, Sniper would pick him off. The convict’s mood must have been very foul, indeed.

Spy sneered around his cigarette. “Go inside before you soil yourself.”

“Hey, fuck you, Frenchie!” Scout shook his head slowly. “Why did he shoot at me and not you?” He took off his headset. “You were standing still and everything, and he didn’t take the shot.”

“I’m Quebecois,” he corrected absently, “and I suspect ‘e is too mad to simply shoot me.”

Scout gave him an appraising glance. “Huh,” he said after a moment. “Whatever, man, I’m going inside.” His eyes darted to the RED base opposite them as he scurried inside with his typical long-legged stride. Spy looked at the bullet holes around him, then up the distant ledge. Sunlight slanted across the RED dilapidated base and a molten speck of light sat in the window. Glare. It wasn’t a mistake. He wanted Spy to know he was watching.

Such an interesting man.

Spy turned and headed towards the base. He opened the fuse box to find the rifle round had pierced it and smattered across the cement wall underneath. A few wires had been damaged, but there was nothing Engineer couldn’t fix. An instinctive chill raised all the hairs on his neck; a chill he had learned not to ignore. Someone was behind him. Perhaps Sniper, clever creature that he was, had used the glare off his scope as a decoy.

He bent down and reached into his inside pocket as if he was looking for another cigarette, but quietly flicked open his butterfly knife instead. Even the shadows stretching across the ground sat at an advantageous angle. He waited for what felt like an eternity. Sweat gathered beneath his gloves. He leaned closer towards the damaged circuitry and presented himself as an irresistible target. Half-seconds moved like centuries. But he waited.

And then it all happened very quickly.

Knifings always did.

Spy whirled around, butterfly knife flashing in the orange lamplight, and managed to clip one of Sniper’s buttons. The RED assassin retreated a step and countered with a slash to the gut. Hampered by his proximity to the base wall, Spy used his forearm to block the strike and was rewarded with an angry slash up his forearm. He ducked beneath the fist aimed at his face and skipped towards the open BLU door. Sniper kicked the large wire that fed into the fuse box and sparks gushed from the top like a ruptured aorta. The door fell in a manner unnervingly similar to a guillotine and nearly clipped Spy’s face as it slammed shut.

He stumbled backwards and swung to face Sniper, only to feel the cool tip of the kukri scratch his chin. Spy took advantage of the overextension and scored two deep slashes up the inside of the Australian’s arm before circling towards the bridge. He slid his cigarette from one corner of his lips to the other and laughed smugly. Sniper approached him slowly, steadily, barely out of breath, and shoulders relaxed. The kukri knife in his hand was absolutely motionless. Spy had seen lions approach prey in the same manner. There were 17 other men on the base, but in that moment it felt like they were the only ones on the planet.

“You know,” Spy took one last drag and flicked his cigarette on the ground, “we could just shoot each other.”

“Yea, we could.” Sniper’s pace didn’t alter. “But where’s the romance in that?”

Spy laughed sharply, unexpectedly, and changed the angle of his butterfly knife. He briefly toyed with the notion of letting Sniper live even after that dreadful scene in the van, then thought better of it. No need to spoil a good thing by being maudlin.

The desert night was cold and hushed. Only the sparking fuse box broke the silence. That, and Sniper’s quiet, crunching footsteps. Spy inhaled deeply and imagined how he would deliver the killing blow. God help him, but picturing Sniper’s gaping, grey-green face almost gave him an erection. It had happened before—to both of them. Sniper would deny it, but his eyes always quickened before the killing shot. With the respawn machines they had unending mortality, and all the weapons and depravity to make use of it.

Sniper stopped just out of arm’s reach with a crooked smile. Spy sneered and activated his cloak.

“Aw, you bloody bastard.”

Spy chuckled and slipped away as blue smoke unfurled around him. He stalked in a circle around Sniper, his footfalls soft and menacing, and positioned himself directly behind his lover. He smiled at the tensed, unprotected back. Too easy.

“I can hear you breathing, mate.” Sniper’s voice had plunged to an ominous growl. He turned slowly, eyes searching blindly for any flicker of movement. Spy crept out of his line of sight, searching for the perfect angle. His cloak wouldn’t last forever. Army training kicked in, then, and he crouched low to the ground. A good killer always approached from an unexpected angle. He lunged for the back of Sniper’s leg and aimed for the tender flesh just above his knee where the popliteal artery arched away from the leg muscles. Sniper’s jeans were tough and his skin was surprisingly elastic, but the butterfly knife parted both in a smooth, angular slash. Blood blossomed beneath his fingers like a rose and a hot pang of pleasure squeezed Spy’s innards in sympathy.

Perfect.

Sniper fell to one knee cursing while Spy’s cloak fell away in an electric blue mist. He retreated with a smile as slick as his knife, and nearly choked on his own saliva when the unexpected agony of Sniper’s kukri tore up and into his diaphragm. His eyes flicked down to see the worn handle jutting weirdly below his ribcage. A burning coldness radiated from the wound. Spy squinted at it while his legs folded neatly underneath him. Blood soaked his shirt and pants, and made them stick unpleasantly to his skin. A hot, tingling wave of weakness pulled him down into the dirt. Sniper watched him, transfixed, as they both bled out on the sand.

“That was bloody brilliant wasn’t it? Here,” Sniper half-crawled towards him and picked up his bloodied butterfly knife, “let me help you with that.” He pulled Spy upright and wrenched a long, hard kiss from him, and then pushed the BLU’s head down to expose his jugulars. “See you tomorrow,” he whispered and tore the blade across Spy’s throat.


	3. Chapter 3

A crackling noise filled his ears, as if he sat in a room filled with radios that had no reception. Medieval bells joined the mix. Then telephones and televisions and voices. It was a cacophony. An overload. Everything had a grainy, garbled quality that defied interpretation. A teeth-grinding hum eclipsed all else, however, and steadily grew louder and brighter. It felt like he was 8 again and tried to grab the power lines hanging sullenly over the yard. Power throbbed around him like a heartbeat and muted the white noise.

Something changed. Clicked. Released.

All the sound heaved in the opposite direction. A sharp white light threatened to cleave his skull in half. Ringing. Somewhere a phone was ringing.

Lipsbreathsweatfear.  
“Good to see you, Mr. Morrin! It’s been a while.”  
Needlepoint. Faceless silhouettes.  
“The BLU Spy knows.”

Spy woke up on the floor with sunlight cutting across his face. He closed his eyes and groaned, and willed the familiar uneasiness in his stomach to disappear. The respawn’s electric hum abruptly cut off and left the room absolutely silent. There were no sounds of battle outside, no movement, no voices. He tried to sit up, but a cramp bit his calf and forced him to grit his teeth and lie still. It was obvious he had respawned while unconscious and toppled onto the floor, his arms and legs spread like a rag doll’s.

He had woken up to worse.

Sunlight slid off his face and made its way across the floor. Spy managed to light a cigarette and waited for feeling to return to his legs. It took time, but numbness eventually gave way to pins and needles. He managed to wriggle his toes before urgent footsteps echoed against the dirt outside, and looked up in time to see Scout appear in the doorway.

“Holy shit,” he gasped.

Spy took a long, unhurried drag from his cigarette. “Bonjour.”

“Holy shit.” Scout grabbed his hat and nearly tore it off his head. “You were dead, man. I mean dead dead. For real dead. It’s been like 4 days and we totally thought you were a gone for good—”

“Scout?”

“Yeah?”

“I ‘ave no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh.” That seemed to deflate Scout. He stepped into the room and took a steadying breath. “Well, we found you outside here with that second smile.” Spy immediately touched his neck, but there was no scar tissue. “And of course we thought, who gives a fuck, cuz it’s just you and late and stuff. We didn’t think much of it.”

“Of course,” Spy muttered dryly.

Scout ignored him. “But then when we came out here in the morning and you were still all dead and we thought something was up, y’know? And then Engie takes a look at the respawn thing, and said it wasn’t working and we were all ‘oh shit’ we are so going to lose.” He leaned close as if to avoid eavesdroppers. “I mean, you were beginning to smell.”

“Oh dear.”

“Hey, fuck you! This is serious. We thought we were going to start dying for real. It took Engie until last night to fix everything.” He flicked his mike up. “Turns out some dickwad cut the power to this building. The cable runs underground till it hits our fucking base, and somebody still managed to fucking break it.” He rocked from one foot to the other. “Can you believe somebody is that retarded?”

Spy remembered Sniper kicking it and snorted. “I can only imagine.” He sat up slowly, cigarette dangling from his lips. “Scout, why is no one fighting today?”

“We threatened to break their respawn, too.” Scout hopped and stretched his arm like he was shooting a basketball from the 3 point line. “There was fighting yesterday and before and stuff, but it was just pussy footing around. Everybody forgot how to play for keeps, y’know?”

Spy sighed and rubbed his forehead. He was starting to get a headache. “Den nobody will miss me if I go to sleep.”

“What?” Scout brayed. “You gotta have a drink or something. Rub it in RED’s face.”

“Non.” Spy stood up slowly, mindful of his dignity. “Den dey will be expecting me.”

“Ooooh,” Scout’s face brightened with comprehension, “I gotchya.”

“Good boy. Now, run along.” He made a shooing motion.

“I’m not a fucking kid,” Scout snapped and stomped out the door, arms in the air. “Fucking asshole! I come all the way and I get shit shovelled in my face.” He continued to rant, though his voice grew thin, distant, and indecipherable, and eventually faded completely. Spy waited a few more moments before he slammed his fist into the wall. It was a silly gesture, but it made him feel better.

After several deep drags on his cigarette, he rolled his shoulders and considered the situation. To have been discovered in that fashion was humiliating. Enraging. It was the second time in a week that Sniper had made him look foolish, and that was unacceptable.

A vicious spike of pain cleaved his skull. The world slowly dissolved into a white, ringing haze that left him blind and deaf on the floor. He didn’t pass out, but for 3 disconcerting seconds he couldn’t open his eyes. When he did, everything looked unfocused. Mottled. The spell passed as quickly as it had come, and when Spy stood up again, there was no weakness. He sighed at the cigarette that lay dirty and half-smoked on the floor, and rubbed his forehead. It felt damp.

“Merde.”

After lighting another cigarette, Spy slunk inside the base, mindful to avoid enemy eyes—especially Sniper’s. The sun lanced the back of his skull like a hot needle. A tingling wave of weakness swept through his body and more sweat dampened his forehead. He was grateful when the base’s cool air swept across his face. Faint voices echoed down the left hall, but Spy immediately ducked away to avoid being seen in such an undignified state. He took an extra long drag and activated his cloak for good measure, and reached his room without incident.

Spy didn’t bother to turn on the light. He stamped his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk, locked the door, and flopped on the bed. It felt wonderfully absolute.

-

He woke sitting up, panting, hand raised, an unnameable despair clutching his throat. His headache throbbed in time with his pulse, and only worsened as he lay back down. A window sat directly level with his bed, its curtains parted every so slightly. The horizon had silvered, and silhouetted desert spires and hoodoos. After debating it for half a minute, Spy got up and had a tug of war with the sill. Some fool had painted the window shut on the inside and outside, and it was never certain whether the window would open. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it didn’t.

Spy sighed and leaned against the cool glass. “Oh, fuck you,” he muttered and fished out a cigarette. He slipped out of the base unnoticed for all his paranoia. The only one who would be awake would be the BLU Sniper, but he often made forays into the desert to hunt. Spy cloaked anyway and crept towards No Man’s Land, where several large hoodoos jutted towards the sky, included in the base’s perimeter. He briefly examined the stars wheeling overhead. They were much brighter than in Montreal, and encrusted in the Milky Way. He hopped up on several small rock formations before tucking himself in against two hoodoos that stemmed from the same base. He leaned back against the cold sandstone and savoured his cigarette. It felt marvellous. His headache eventually dulled to a blunt pressure behind his eyes.

His good mood was ruined by the scuff of boots on stone.

“Christ sake,” Spy murmured under his breath and then raised his voice. “What de fuck do you want?”

RED’s sniper raised his hands in surrender, each clutching a beer. “Truce?”

Spy glared at him, lip curled. “Go away.”

“Aw, don’t be like that.” Sniper gestured towards their bases, which were obscured by a curve in the path. “It’s not like you expected that, either.” When Spy fished out his revolver, he shrugged helplessly. “Jesus, mate, what do you want me to say? I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care. Go away or I will shoot you.”

“Is this about leaving your body in the open?”

“Non.”

“Then wot?”

“Nothing! Just go away.”

Sniper tilted his head to the side. “You’re worse than a girlfriend, y’know that?”

Spy cocked the hammer with his thumb.

“Alright, alright.” Sniper backed away. “I’ll just enjoy these beers on my own then.”

“Do.” Spy watched him retreat around the corner before holstering his gun. “Prick,” he snorted, and allowed himself to relax. When he reached the filter, he squashed his cigarette against the sandstone and lit a new one. His headache had all but disappeared by the time he finished it. When he lit his third, the hairs on his neck stood on end and a distinctly man-sized creature leapt from the pass between the two hoodoos and landed beside him.

Spy gaped. “What de fuck?”

“Well, I figured the beer would be warm by the time I got back.” Sniper sat down and propped his elbows on his knees. “Be a shame, that.”

“You just crawled up on from the other side.”

“Bingo.” He offered Spy a beer.

“Non! You are an asshole.”

Sniper laughed and took out his keys, which had a small Swiss army knife attached to it, and used it to open a bottle. “C’mon, don’t be sour.” He dangled it in front of Spy. “Have some grog.”

Spy shot him a cutting look. “Dis is a sorry attempt to get back into my good graces.”

“Yea?” Sniper’s posture was as relaxed as ever. “You still prefer blokes who don’t ask, then?”

It stung, ridiculously enough. Spy exhaled slowly and recalled his botched attempt at heroism. Scout’s back vanishing from the room. The futile struggling, the pain, the fury…. After scouring all that ugliness for a clue, he asked, “’ow do you know about dat?”

“Spy told me. Our spy.”

“Naturally.” Spy flicked his cigarette and watched the ashes spiral downwards.

There was a contrite pause.

“Yea. Your soldier’s a nasty piece of work. Nearly as loony as ours.” Sniper opened his own beer with a savage twist. “Haven’t shot that piker in the head since.” He smiled, but there was no friendliness in it. “You ever see a man lying in the dirt with his limbs blown off? Funniest thing.” He shook his head. “Cries like a lamb every time.”

Spy examined his cigarette pensively. “And ‘ow many would that be?”

“Thirty seven.” Sniper drank nearly half of his beer in one shot, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and chuckled. “Got him in the donger once, too.”

“I saw dat.” Spy smiled darkly. “I assumed it ‘ad been an accident.”

“Nope. He got what he deserved.”

“Oui.” He sipped his beer, eyes occasionally flicking over Sniper’s face. They sat together in companionable silence that was unlike anything they had shared before. Spy took a contemplative sip of beer and watched the horizon. It was an opportunity. Things could be different between them. Sniper knew it, too. The man looked like he was bracing himself. If they didn’t fuck it away, as per usual, something new might blossom.

He waited until their bottles were both empty, then slid into Sniper’s lap and sealed his lips over the Australian’s. The kiss swam with a disquieting mix of relief and disappointment. It was still good—good enough that neither needed to kill to enjoy it. Even the parallel between Soldier’s hands and Sniper’s was eclipsed by the memory of his castration.

Spy sucked in a harsh breath when Sniper’s teeth pinched the flesh underneath his jaw. He shoved him against the stone in retaliation and pinned him there with a long, wet kiss. The memory of Soldier on the ground, clutching his crotch, and screaming like an animal made Spy’s mouth curl into a smile. He met Sniper’s gaze once and the memory reciprocated there sent a hot tingle up his navel. The next kiss was sloppy, filled with feeling, and spilled over onto Sniper’s jaw and Adam’s apple. He grunted softly when Spy nipped the vulnerable flesh beneath his chin.

His mask clung unpleasantly to his forehead despite the cold desert air and he broke away long enough to shrug off his jacket. Sniper clutched his shirt and pulled it up from where Spy had tucked it in his slacks. Fingernails scraped carelessly across his belly and back, and left scorching trails crisscrossing his flesh like scars. He arched into it and pressed their erections together.

“Hold on, Christ,” Sniper mumbled and unbuckled Spy’s belt with a savage yank. He hiked a leg up and spun them around. Spy hit the stone with a breathy grunt, his tie flung over his shoulder. He lifted his hips and felt Sniper’s erection slide along the seam of his pants. A white hot thread in his gut pulled taut and he couldn’t help rolling his hips. Sniper grunted and reached for his own belt with an air of urgency.

“Dree days.” Spy undid his own shirt and tie, but didn’t have time to remove them when Sniper pushed his jeans down around his knees. He stared for a moment. “Dree fucking days,” he said again, eyes flicking up to meet Sniper’s.

“Bloody spook. Stop talking.” Sniper grasped the back of Spy’s head and pulled him in for a long, lustful kiss, tongue sweeping over his teeth, and drew away with a wet plip. He pushed Spy to the ground and fished out lube from his rumpled right pocket, and unscrewed the cap with his thumb and index finger. He squeezed out a liberal amount in his palm and swept it up and down his cock.

Spy’s smile curved like a scimitar as he slowly slipped his slacks down his thighs, over his knees, and to his ankles. It was cold and the ground was uncomfortable, but the transfixed silence was worth it. Sniper froze, hand white knuckled on his cock, then hurled himself on top of him. The unexpected angles of flesh against flesh nearly undid them both. Sniper hooked Spy’s knee with the crook of his elbow and forced him to bend backwards. Spy groaned, but didn’t resist. He looked skyward and gasped softly when Sniper’s fingers squeezed his ass. He was pushed back a littler farther, and a rush of cold air under his balls sent another tingling wave rolling up his stomach.

“By God, you’re not wearing any Grundies.”

“Just ‘urry up,” he snapped irritably.

Sniper snorted, but propped Spy’s other leg over his shoulder and guided himself downwards. Spy shut his eyes and willed himself not to tense. He would never admit it, but every time Sniper’s cock pressed into him, something distastefully close to panic would clutch his throat. Soldier’s legacy. This time was no different. Sniper pushed inside without pretence, and although they had been having sex for a while, it wasn’t a painless endeavour. He hated the cold slickness of the lube and the tickle of pubic hair against his ass, but all thought was driven from his mind when Sniper leaned forward and started questing for his prostate with careful, precise thrusts. A sharp rock sawed into his shoulder blade, barely noticeable beneath the flare of heat.

Spy moaned softly, then brazenly, and pushed back. Sniper changed his angle and caught his prostate, and everything outside that feeling fell away. Further. Further. When Sniper dug his fingernails into Spy’s hips, his toes curled in ecstasy. Pain and pleasure hung in perfect balance. He dug his hands into the hoodoo behind him and gave himself up to the moment. The wet slap of their flesh echoed in the desert quiet. Sniper dug his feet into the dirt like a lineman and set a pace that made Spy babble incoherently in several languages. His foot upset one of the empty beer bottles. It tipped over, rolled over the edge, and shattered on the ground below. Sniper paused in mid-thrust despite Spy’s exasperated groan, and waited for seven full seconds before resuming his pace.

He leaned forward until his shoulder trapped Spy’s head against the rock and spoke in a deep, menacing whisper. “You watch now. That fucking cunt will be in bits by tomorrow night.”

Spy couldn’t help it. He arched into the next thrust and every nerve in his body went taut. Tingled on the brink. Snapped. “Ah! Jésus Christ, Barry!” Spy gasped shamelessly and came to that image. Sniper bit his earlobe, cock throbbing, and drove into him in sharp, uncoordinated thrusts until his face went absolutely still. He grunted from between clenched teeth and shuddered violently, thrusts harsh and erratic. They went taut against each other, over stimulated, and rode out the electric rush of orgasm in near silence. It was the moment Spy had been looking for. He clutched Sniper close, breathing in his breath, and closed his eyes. He didn’t have to feel or think or dream; just drift on the fading throbs of ecstasy like a feather on the ocean surface.

But like all moments of happiness, it eventually withered away. Spy opened his eyes as his lover’s weight disappeared and the world slid back into focus.

“You said Barry.” Sniper rolled over, slick skin catching moonlight.

“Barry?” Spy sat up and rubbed his shoulder. “Who de fuck is dat?”

Sniper watched him, eyes strange and dark. “Me, you bastard. My name is Barry.”

Spy frowned, then turned away and began to dress. “So what?” He straightened his balaclava. “I must ‘ave read it somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Intel.”

“You fucking liar.” Sniper kicked the other beer bottle off the edge and didn’t react when it shattered loudly down below. “How do you know my name?”

“I don’t know.” Spy turned around, the whites of his eyes gleaming moistly in the darkness. After a tense pause, he exhaled noisily and grabbed his shirt. “De fuck is wrong with you? It’s just a name.”

Sniper regarded him with white-faced rage. “Mate,” he began with a soft growl, “the only thing I had for myself was my name and you just took that away.” He stood up and met Spy’s cold stare. “So I suggest you start talking.”

Spy saw it all in a half-second. His silence would drive Sniper to hunt him down instead of Soldier. And Spy, of course, would retaliate in the appropriate fashion. All of the little feelings they worked out through sex would be worked out through torture, instead. He took a long drag on his newest cigarette and tucked his shirt into his trousers. His belt closed with a metallic click that settled in the silence like a lead weight on a taut rubber band. He could admit, at least to himself, that after RED Spy’s interrogation, he wasn’t keen on waging all out war yet, but to confess such a thing…. It was ghastly. Nothing short of maudlin.

“Well,” he replied with the slightest hint of trepidation, “I might ‘ave dreamt it.”

“You might have dreamt it,” Sniper repeated flatly.

“Don’t give me dat shit look. You asked.” He took a troubled drag on his cigarette. “I ‘ave ‘ad weird dreams ever since I was stuck in de respawn cycle.”

“And what the hell does that mean?”

Spy felt his face heat. “If I knew,” he hissed defensively, “I wouldn’t ‘ave told you.”

Sniper chuffed. “Now that I’d believe.” He studied Spy for a moment, anger turning to disgust. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

There was no elegant reply to that, so Spy shrugged on his vest and said nothing.

“You’re serious?” He repeated, voice rising.

“Oui,” Spy snapped, feeling surprisingly brittle, “and I was right.”

That took the wind out of Sniper’s sails. He stood still for a moment, then turned and bent down to retrieve his pants. His back was tanned and well-muscled. He was a handsome man, horse-face, poor hygiene, temper, and all.

“Yea. You were right.” Sniper flung his pants over his shoulder like a dishtowel and jabbed his finger into Spy’s chest. “Now I want to know what the fuck is going on. No more games. No more killing for sport.”

Spy flicked his cigarette over the edge. “You want to change all dat over a name?”

Sniper picked up his aviators and perched them on top of his head. “Killing men you know changes things.”

“Oh, give it up. Only Jesus looked good carrying a cross.” Spy lit another cigarette. “A name is just a name.”

“On paper, maybe. Not screamed during sex.”

“You weren’t dat good,” Spy muttered churlishly, having no other answer.


	4. Chapter 4

Spy leaned against the wall, cigarette in hand, and watched as the team hauled supplies off the train. Demo shot him a fierce look as he bent down and hefted a large bag of flour over his shoulder. His eye was still bloodshot from the previous evening’s binge drinking and he mumbled something caustic under his breath as he trudged up the stairs.

“You could help,” Engineer said in his southern twang. He tucked his goggles into his hardhat and set it on the lowest step, his forehead slicked with sweat.

It was the same argument every time. Spy took a drag and replied, “Oui.”

“But you won’t.”

“Oui.”

Engineer shook his head in disgust and hefted the last crate of rations against his hip. The pose made him look exceptionally handsome, especially with his face uncovered. Spy watched light glint off his shaven hair and considered sweet-talking his way into the Texan’s bed. Engineer returned his stare, brows drawn into a thunderous scowl.

“Try it, Spah, and I’ll make you regret it.”

Spy flicked excess ash off his cigarette. “Such a shame,” he sighed.

Engineer snorted, but said no more as he followed Demoman up the stairs. He glanced over his shoulder and caught Spy looking at his ass.

“I can look.”

“Not too closely,” Engineer retorted, a loose fist raised in warning.

“Oui,” Spy laughed, “not too closely.”

That was that, then. The other BLUs came down to haul supplies upstairs and offered various incentives for Spy to help (Scout’s being the most anatomically creative,) but he was too busy fantasizing about BLU Engineer and RED Sniper in his bed to pay much attention. He hummed cheerfully at the thought and savoured the last drag of his cigarette.

Ah, if only.

He snapped out of his daze when he heard the familiar clap of military issue boots on cement. Soldier entered the station, shovel thrown casually over his shoulder. The straps on his helmet swung lazily in stride and gave the impression of a nonchalant dog. Spy cloaked before he was seen and walked as quietly as he could towards the door. Soldier hustled down the steps with his usual “hut hut hut” and jogged towards the large crates filled with armaments. His shoulders were broad and squared, and tapered down to a narrow waist. He cut a powerful figure in the dimming light.

The smell was the worst. Spy held his breath as the familiar scent of sweat, ash, gun powder, and maleness swept over him, but Soldier didn’t notice his presence. He bent over, lifted one crate with a grunt of effort, and swung around. He paused in front of the stairs, almost directly ahead of where Spy stood pressed against the wall, and then loped up and across the walkway. Dirt rained down in small, ticklish clumps that revealed the outline of a man, but Soldier didn’t notice.

Spy felt more relief than was proper. He sighed and rubbed his forehead where the now familiar headache flared. The sun had half-set by the time he crept outside and the entire area was drenched in red light. It made him nervous. His cloak sighed and fell away, and for six nerve racking seconds he scoured the ground below for Soldier. It was still hot out and the air around the metal stairs wavered like a distant mirage. He stood there like a fool as every trick of the light sent his pulse racing. It was like his first mission all over again with the entire world on his shoulders and no skills beyond the suspicions of a nosey, 19-year-old boy.

But in the end, there was nothing.

Good.

He lit another cigarette despite the heat and headed back to the base. A bonfire raged near the river. Pryo tossed empty crates into the flames and watched it burn with religious awe. He waved at Spy with a friendly if indecipherable greeting, and tossed on more fuel. Various chemicals painted on the crates made the flames burn unnatural colours. Presently, it was green. The smell was awful.

“You are going to kill us all with dat!” Spy snapped as he walked past.

Pyro gave a muffled chuckle and used his flamethrower to strengthen the blaze. Bright yellow tongues of fire mixed with green and it looked oddly beautiful. A blast of heat made Spy retreat to a safer distance, his nose already itching from whatever toxins were in the smoke. He turned in time to see Soldier rise from the sand beneath the station’s walkway, shovel raised with purpose. He paused then to absorb Spy’s reaction, looking like a toy. Faceless, green, and frozen in mid-strike.

It felt unreal. Spy felt his heartbeat measure the passing seconds. Even after all that time, Soldier seemed to tower over him. His helmet slipped backwards for a heartbeat to unveil wide, unblinking yes that blazed with conviction. The Quebecois took an instinctive step back, gun suddenly in hand. He didn’t remember drawing it. Pyro shouted in the background, distant and faint.

Soldier stopped six feet away and tilted his helmet out of his eyes. There was no reason there. No fear. “You’re punishing me,” he said in a low, quivering tone. “They don’t know that, but I do.” He took another step closer. “I know everything.” His eyes, a mild robin egg blue, drilled into Spy’s skull. “This is Hell.”

“What?”

“And you’re the goddamned Devil.”

Spy was so flabbergasted he nearly didn’t duck below the shovel aimed at his head. He stumbled backwards, uncomfortably close to Pyro’s blaze, and aimed his revolver between Soldier’s eyes. The kick and the muzzle flash and the sharp echo between the fortresses felt unreal. Soldier jerked back like he had been startled, but he didn’t fall down. Spy shot him again and again without aiming, but the bastard just wouldn’t die.

His fingers were suddenly empty. Engineer gripped Spy’s hand and held the revolver in his other, face twisted in anger. Pyro stood behind them, shoulders tensed, uncertain how to react.

Soldier sank to his knees, blood steadily blooming down the front of his uniform. He propped himself up with his shovel and started mumbling the Lord’s Prayer, breaths growing raspy and shallow. Spy watched him exsanguinate with a blank expression. It happened surprisingly quickly. Soldier gasped the last verse and slowly fell onto his back, blood saturating his clothes; dying him in likeness to his RED counterpart. His helmet fell off and rolled in a semi-circle until it hit his arm and wobbled like an overturned turtle. His face went slack and his eyes rolled into the back of his head, leaving the whites to reflect lurid green firelight.

“What was that?” Engineer asked, deceptively calm. When Spy didn’t answer, he shook him. “What in the hell was that?” He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Soldier’s corpse vanish for the respawn cycle.

The futility of it all hit Spy, then. Maybe Soldier was right. They were in Hell and nothing they did would ever last. Ever matter. They would all just die and die and die until they couldn’t kill anymore. And even then there would be no respite. Just everlasting life.

“Spah?”

He started laughing. It sounded awful and unhinged to his own ears, but he couldn’t stop. He doubled over, cigarette falling out of his mouth, and marvelled at the sheer stupidity of their lives. Big hands slid under his arms and held up him upright. Medic and Heavy had arrived. They looked puzzled and mentally sound.

“God has a sense of humour, non?” He wiped tears from his eyes. “De lunatic is de one to figure dings out.” He laughed again, louder than before. “Dat is fucking hilarious.”

“Doctor?” Heavy threw a quick glance at Medic, uncertain how to proceed.

Medic raised one hand in a way that suggested he was used to commanding others. “He needs to rest,” he said, eyes brooking no opposition. Engineer nodded curtly and handed him Spy’s gun.

“Reckon you better hold on to it.” He turned away and continued back to the station where he had forgotten his hardhat and goggles.

“Rest,” Spy gasped hysterically, “rest.” He struggled in Heavy’s grip. “Dat is precisely de last ding I need.”

“If Doctor says you need rest, then you need rest.” Heavy held him up at eye level. “You question Doctor? You insult me.”

Spy’s head flopped back and he laughed at the sky. It hurt, but he couldn’t stop. Even when they carried him into the base and his voice echoed sharply in the halls, he couldn’t stop. Something had been loosened and the rush of feeling needed an outlet. If he stayed silent, he would go mad. Or maybe he was mad already and it didn’t matter.

Heavy threw him onto the medical bed.

“Ow! What did you do dat for?”

“Little man should not laugh so much,” was the only answer he received. Heavy gave him an ominous look and stepped back to make room for Medic, who held up a syringe and flicked it.

“Ja,” he said, “it iz annoying.”

Spy remembered nothing after that. Not even the prick of the needle.

-

“Hey, Spy.”

Faces, fears, voices—all scrambled. And that infernal ringing.

“Réessaie. Réeassaie pour….”

“What? Fuck, man, stop mumbling.”

A cheering crowd in the middle of a blizzard. Shifting, man-shaped shadows. The mirror-silver flash of passing cars. Doomed.

All of it doomed.

“Spy. Wake up.”

He tried to open his eyes and failed. A sickening tingle rushed up his body, followed by weakness and nausea. His heart felt ready to burst from his chest, but his limbs were rooted in the ground. He felt disconnected. Disembodied. After a moment of blessed silence, awareness began to dissolve back into warm oblivion.

Until hands clutched his face, their texture somehow removed.

Ah. He was still wearing a balaclava.

“C’mon, you French fuck, say something.”

Was his heart going to explode? Was that possible? A spike of fear punctured the heaviness pressing down on his eyelids. He inhaled deeply and forced his eyes open. The feeling of disconnection didn’t go away, but his pulse began to slow down. Scout’s face swam into focus, almost indiscernible in the dim illumination. A small desk lamp provided the only light in the room and mellowed the harsh white interior of Medic’s office.

Spy licked his lips, which were cracked and painful. Had he been screaming? “Not French,” he croaked.

Immediately Scout’s hands slipped away. “Yeah, whatever. French Canadian is still French, dumbass.” He grabbed Spy’s arm and yanked. “C’mon, get up. The RED’s demoman’s gone batshit.”

It took a moment to match faces to names. Spy blinked rapidly and allowed himself to be dragged upright like a doll. White spots flashed in his peripheral vision, followed by a wave of dizziness. The prospect of standing up felt utterly impossible. He shook his head and flopped back on the bed.

“Non,” he rasped, eyes sliding shut.

An explosion made the windows rattle. Spy felt vibrations ripple through the bed and clawed for a handhold against the relentless drag of sleep. Scout mumbled something unsavoury, hopped into the bed, and wedged his cleats between Spy’s back and the mattress. Then he pushed.

“Ah! Crosseur!” Spy managed to grab one of the bedrails and jerked himself upright. He looked around the room and had a hard time recalling where he was or whether it was day or night, and provoked another rush of weakness. Scout allowed no time for disorientation. He slid off the sheets and pulled on Spy’s wrists like a farmer pulling on the bridle of a donkey.

“Come on.”

“Jesus,” Spy hissed and nearly fell onto the floor, “‘old on.” He swung his legs over the side and slowly put weight on his feet. His heart gave a disconcerting throb, but the dizziness steadily receded. “Dey didn’t even take off my shoes.” He scowled and slowly made his way to the door. It felt like his body had been filled with sand.

“Fuck, it’s gonna be over by the time you leave the room.” Scout dragged him out the door at a merciless pace. Spy was glad that he only had to go down one set of stairs. Their footsteps echoed harshly in the hallways. Only theirs. No one else was around. He fought off another bout of nausea in time to be drawn outside. The air was cold and refreshing, and he immediately felt better. It was night.

Pyro’s fire had turned red.

There was a commotion by the parameter. Spy allowed himself to be hauled towards the river which marked the boundary between RED and BLU’s bases and the smell of water reminded him of how thirsty he was.

“See?” Scout pointed towards RED territory. “Look at that.”

Spy gazed irritably across the river, but bristled when he saw the RED demoman waving sticky bombs at his own teammates. Sniper was among them and the fact that relief registered for a moment made him grimace. He sighed and reached for his cigarettes, but his disguise kit felt heavier and clumsier than before. After his third failed attempt, Scout lit it for him with an exasperated scowl.

“Merci.” Spy squinted in the dimness. The inconsolable Scotsman kept his back against the fence and stumbled downhill towards the river. He held a bottle of homemade alcohol in one hand and a bomb in the other. Their soldier stood on the hillcrest, confusion visible in the set of his shoulders. The RED spy had his hands up and spoke soft, accented English that appeared to calm the demoman. Spy regarded his counterpart maliciously and recalled when that same voice had crooned sweetly in his ear while glass shattered in his mouth.

“Crazy, huh?” Scout stepped closer to him. “I thought the guy was gonna shit bricks.”

Spy smoked silently, eyes half-lidded. The RED demoman shook his head like an exhausted dog while the spy placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. Their silhouettes were hunched and weary, and Spy wondered if everyone felt the same way. He took another drag on his cigarette and exhaled at the stars. The moon hung overhead, pale and small like a child’s thumbnail. Pyro threw another crate on the fire and it popped and cracked like gunfire. He mumbled sheepishly when his teammates glared at him.

Something in the air shifted. Spy turned back to see the demoman staring at him. His chest tightened. There was some shared knowledge between them, some jagged secret. He didn’t know what it was, but it sat lodged in his throat. Familiar pain bloomed behind his eyes. That goddamned ringing sound needled his eardrums. It felt like something was trying to press him into a small space, but he couldn’t look away.

The RED demoman pointed at Spy like the grim reaper. “He knows,” he cried out, “the BLU spy knows!”

All eyes swivelled towards Spy.

“You know what he’s talking about?” Scout scrutinized him, face painted red by the firelight.

“I ‘ave no idea.”

The RED demoman tossed his bottle away and fired a round at the fence. Blinding white light. Searing heat and smoke. The entire world rippled underneath his feet. It was all burned into the back of Spy’s eyes before he hit the ground. The demoman’s cackle sounded unearthly in the silence that followed. Spy lifted his head in time to see him charge through the hole in the fence.

There was a poof and a whoop of joy.

His laughter ended in a thunderous, earth-rippling explosion that flattened the fence like wheat in a hailstorm. Those who had remained on their feet during the first explosion fell during the second. A stunned hush descended on the clearing, intense and surreal, as the smell of burnt flesh permeated the air. RED Spy inched warily towards the hole in the fence, his eyes darting at the BLUs who loitered by the fire, but no one reached for their weapon. Something greater was at stake.

RED spy’s voice sounded strained as it floated out of the shadows. “Ze…body is still ‘ere.” The what is left of it hung morbidly in the air.

“Well,” Spy flicked ashes onto the ground, “dat is one way to retire.” He laughed when no one else did.

Medic glanced at him, glasses reflecting the firelight, then at a shamefaced Scout. “Spy is supposed to be resting, ja?”

He shrugged nervously.

The RED spy stepped onto the river bank, cigarette smouldering brightly between his lips. He took a long drag before tossing it to the ground and crushing it beneath his heel. “Ze BLU spy knows,” he repeated, voice barely audible over Pyro’s blaze, but the quiver of suppressed emotion was obvious. “What does he know, hmm? What is worth such an ignoble death?”

An uncomfortable silence hollowed out the space between the teams. Spy blinked rapidly to dispel the weakness in his limbs and regarded his counterpart for a moment. A spurt of malice rose past his exhaustion. He would never forget the sight of his own skin being peeled away in neat strips.

So he smiled and said nothing.

“It is a secret?” The RED spy nodded philosophically, then unholstered his revolver and fired a round directly into RED sniper’s head. The Australian uttered an inhuman gurgle and crumpled into a heap. His rifle hit the sand with a muted thud and his team mates retreated cursing and gasping.

“That ain’t right,” Engineer muttered.

Spy fought the urge to leap across the river and slit the Frenchman’s throat right then and there. It didn’t matter. RED Spy read it on his face. He inhaled noisily and clamped his lips around his cigarette. He knew the respawn machines worked. He knew Sniper would be alive within the next 30 seconds, but the fact that someone else had killed him to prove a point, that it was dark and he couldn’t see the corpse actually vanish, made his eyes prick with fury.

RED Spy looked at the jagged hole in the fence. A yawning emptiness stretched outside, dark and unfathomable. He met Spy’s unblinking stare and smiled mirthlessly. “I trust you will not be so rude the next time I ask?” He vanished in an eruption of maroon smoke, but his departing chuckle sat between the teams like an unexploded bomb.

“See what he’s set in motion?” Soldier asked suddenly, partially eclipsed from Spy’s view by the fire. He flickered in the heat, washed bright red, eyes staring madly beneath the lip of his helmet. His voice was rough and velvety. “He’s holding us here.”

“Shut your gob,” Demo snapped, looking shaken by the entire spectacle.

“He’s punishing us.”

Spy halved the distance between himself and Soldier before Engineer caught him across the waist. “Whoa, whoa, Spah. Hold up!” He grunted when Spy elbowed him in the belly. “He says that all the time. Let’s just go inside.”

“If I am de Devil,” Spy strained against Engineer’s grip, “den why are you burning in ‘ell with the rest of us, eh?” He laughed at Soldier’s enraged expression. “I can’t say I’m surprised.” He spat out his cigarette and hissed, “If you weren’t good enough for de army, den why would you be good enough for ‘eaven?”

Soldier knocked both of them down with an inhuman roar. He threw Engineer out of the way like he weighed nothing and dug his fingers into Spy’s throat, not squeezing, but mapping out the ridges of his cervical spine. Spy gasped and clawed frantically at his arms and their familiar strength. He had made a mistake. It was like—before. Too much like before. He managed a broken yelp when Soldier bent his neck back at an awkward angle. Several pairs of hands wrapped around Soldier’s shoulders, dragged him back, and he yielded to them inch by agonizing inch. But in the end, Soldier had his way. He snarled, spittle hanging from his lips, dug his knee into the sand for leverage, and snapped Spy’s head to the side. His neck crunched like a plastic bottle.

The brief oblivion before respawn made it worthwhile.


	5. Chapter 5

Spy took a long drink of Demo’s home brew and leaned against the base’s wall. The good thing about his profession was that nobody really knew who he was, bothered to find out, and wouldn’t miss him when he died. Spies died all the time. It was all part of the deceptively glamorous lives they lead. They could afford all the niceties while on the job because the paycheques wouldn’t be cashed for very long. He was just lucky to have made it to his 37th birthday. Today. Lucky 37.

He took another drink and stumbled towards the broken fence.

Except in BLU’s contract. Spy should have died hundreds of times over, but he wasn’t even allowed that dignity, was he? He couldn’t even be free of Soldier and his damn bible. That lunatic had such a steady conviction about himself and the world, and he didn’t deserve it. But, then again, only a mad man could see sense in their world, sealed off and sterilized like a petri dish. Maybe Spy was still too sane to fool himself into seeing God’s grace in anything anymore. Maybe that was his special punishment—to see enough to eat him up inside, but not enough to escape. He had always been second place in the companies’ private little war. BLU had hired him because RED had poached their number one man, and it wasn’t something that he could forget.

The ground lurched underneath Spy’s feet and he fell to his knees. He dropped Demo’s booze and watched it roll into a sandy dimple, its contents quietly gurgling into the dirt. “Shit,” he whispered and scrambled for the bottle, but his clumsy grab only made it spin farther away. Like his fucking life.

For a moment, he just sat there. Silent and inconsolable.

“Fuck it.” Spy sniffed loudly and grabbed the bottle’s neck in a white-knuckled grip. The ground felt like shifting ice as he lurched to his feet, and he swayed side-to-side to counteract its movements. Another gulp of Demo’s booze helped dim the cacophony in his head. The break in the fence was visible from where he stood, as was Sniper’s van. He stopped so suddenly he nearly fell over again.

Sniper would be in there. Sniper liked him. Sniper didn’t care about all those things. Sniper would love one last fuck. It made perfect sense.

He managed to reach the Australian’s van without falling, but had ran out of Demo’s brew. He held the bottle over his head until every last drop had fallen onto his tongue, then dropped it and stumbled towards the door, which opened with a loud squeal and released the smell of unwashed male. It was nearly enough to make him turn around and leave, but the prospect of sex drew him inside in spite of it all.

“Sniper,” he purred, “where are you?”

An indistinct shape shifted on the bed. “Spook?”

“Oui.” He grinned and stepped forward, only to trip on a boot and plunge head first into the mattress. “Oh my God,” he mumbled and sat up laughing. “You really need to clean dis place.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Sniper’s voice had dipped to a dangerous growl. He sat up slowly, eyes as hard as granite. “You gotta be…. Are you drunk?” He curled his lip at Spy’s enthusiastic nod. “Get out.”

“Non. Non. Wait.” Spy used the bed as leverage and stood up. “I just came ‘ere for fun.”

Sniper was suddenly armed and on his feet. “I was just shot and humiliated in front of my team. They’re asking me all these things about conspiracies and turning traitor. About being a poofter! I have to live with these people, you self-absorbed prick, but you couldn’t even keep a secret for my sake, could you?” He pressed Spy against the opposing counter, kukri raised. “I would have been better off leaving you in Spy’s hands. Now,” he added pressure for emphasis, “get out of my sight.”

Maybe it was because he felt sad, or drunk, or both, but it hurt. He had tortured and been tortured, betrayed, abandoned, and witness to unspeakable things. And yet the sincerity in Sniper’s voice struck him deeper than any of those things. It wasn’t about business or money or politics. It was about him and one of the people who knew him best. Spy blinked rapidly and shrugged. “Okay, okay.” When Sniper backed away, he walked carefully towards the door. “I ‘ave to look Soldier in de face every day, but what does dat matter? ‘e only fucked me ‘alf to death crying about his God. His wife.” He opened the door with enough force that it slammed against the van. “But ‘eaven forbid Mama’s precious boy ‘as to deal with some adversity.”

“One of my mates just died. Piss on you.” Sniper shoved Spy as he walked down the steps.

Spy should have expected it. He toppled forward, slammed his knees against the second grated stair, and landed face first in the dirt. Not exactly the poetic exit he had imagined on the way over. He slowly dragged himself onto his hands and knees, then paused. The similarity between then and the day Sniper had rescued him was startling. Surreal. Well, why not? Futility had defined Spy’s existence. It was only wishful thinking to believe there would be some dignity in escaping it.

He bowed his head and tightened his hands into fists. It felt like a great hand was trying to crush him against the ground.

“Oui.” He stood up, wobbling. “Piss on me.”

“Fuck, I….” Sniper’s voice creaked like old leather. “Let me help you.”

Spy snorted and started walking back the way he came. He felt Sniper’s eyes dig into face, but didn’t deign to acknowledge the Australian’s change of heart. Instead, he fished out his disguise kit and his revolver, and lit a cigarette one-handed as he stumbled past the van. Nothing left to enjoy but his bad habits. He paused only to load three bullets into the cylinder and spun it shut with an easy flick of his wrist. Might as well put some suspense into it. The final trick of an obsolete magician.

“Oi, base is that way.” Sniper’s boots crunched loudly behind him. “Where are you going?”

The Quebecois’ answer was to vanish in a swirl of blue smoke.

It was satisfying to thwart someone else’s will for once. Spy stood still and watched Sniper stare vacantly at the desert. He raised his revolver to eye level and cocked the hammer back. He’d let Fate decide.

“Gotchya!” Sniper lunged across the space that separated them and clamped his arms around Spy. The revolver’s kick stung and the shot went wide, echoing sharply in the desert silence. More blue smoke whirled around them as the Quebecois materialized and they fell in a cursing bundle onto the ground. “You coward,” he snarled and wrenched the gun from Spy’s hand. “You bloody coward.”

“And you’re a spoiled brat.” He wriggled like an eel; the conversation and violence and nearness of another person took him back to the agonizing eternity he had spent splayed under Soldier. “Get off of me.” He struggled to reach his butterfly knife. “Get off of me.”

“And let you hightail it out of here so you can go kill yourself? Not likely. You bloody drunken coward!” Sniper used his weight to pin his lover down, voice heavy with disgust. He had wrestled a crocodile in the same fashion, but the crocodile hadn’t bitten his shoulder as retaliation. “Ow! Jesus!”

Spy spat blood in his face. “Dat is what you get, suceux de balus!” He dug his knee into Sniper’s belly and catapulted the Australian up and over onto his back. Hands free, Spy quickly snapped open his butterfly knife and rolled to his feet, and then nearly fell down again. “Oh, God,” he muttered, surprised. “I should’ve just went drough de fence.”

“Bit late for that,” Sniper growled and folded into a crouch.

“Your little safari act doesn’t scare me, Barry.” Spy smiled derisively. “Please. Your bush man reputation sounds like glorified duck ‘unting—only you could never afford to get a dog to fetch for you.” He released a loud, scornful laugh while sneaking a clumsy look at his watch. His cloak had nearly fully regenerated.

“Should I try and be like you, then? Hey?” The air between them thickened with fury. “A coward who’s mad as a cut snake with a knack for getting himself killed?” Sniper’s lip curled, baring his teeth. “Don’t know if I have it in me, mate.” He casually brought Spy’s revolver into sight and opened the cylinder. “Move and I’ll shoot your kneecaps,” he warned in a flat tone, not even looking at Spy, who had reached for his watch. After a long pause, he said, “You were really going to kill yourself, weren’t you?”

“Only you can be so anxious and angry at de same time.” Spy flicked the knife in his hand, but the blade ended up clipping his thumb and the pain snapped everything into focus, if only for a moment. His dreams flitted at the edge of his vision like mosquitos. Relentless. Maddening. The hysteria he had thought neatly tucked away suddenly leapt up into his throat. “Oh God, oh God, oh God. What am I doing ‘ere?” he whispered to himself and slowly turned around, finding nothing but their compound and empty desert. A brief glimpse of people cheering in a blizzard made his vision swim. “I need to get out. Away.” He screwed his eyes shut and groaned. “Ugh, dis is all wrong.”

“Wot are you mumbling about?” Sniper’s voice was closer. Guarded.

“I try to imagine a place dat’s,” he made a clumsy gesture, “not ‘ere, but I can’t.” A hysterical laugh threatened to slip out of his mouth. He was so very drunk. “De BLU spy knows, eh? I can’t even remember where I live.” He did laugh, then, but it sounded like a scream. “And you,” he turned around to see Sniper right behind him, “you made me care about dings. Why did you do dat?”

“I don’t know wot you’re on ab—shit.”

Spy fell forwards in a boneless heap, fed up with the universe and its tricks, and was vaguely surprised when Sniper caught him. “I used to be like your spy,” he continued wistfully. “I could carry so many secrets….”

Sniper sighed harshly. “Christ, you’re plonked. Here…let’s just go back to my van.” He hefted Spy onto his feet, but the Quebecois let his legs fold like an obstinate child.

“Non! You’re just going to drow me out again.” He grunted when Sniper’s grip tightened. “And den get mad when I leave.” He hung limply in his lover’s arms like a doll. “Barry,” he said with a grave air, “you’re stupid.”

“You show up, off your face, after me getting shot and losing a friend, looking for a root, and you’re wondering why I tossed you out on your ass?” Sniper snorted belligerently. “Nah, mate, one suicide is enough for today.” He dragged Spy towards the van, dirty fingernails breaking skin, and ignored the resultant kicking and screaming.

The full effect of Demo’s booze was starting to hit Spy. He swung himself back and forth like a hammock, kicking up sand as he went, but Sniper’s grip didn’t falter. “Maudit fif! Laisse allez!” He twisted violently and dug his heels into the sand. “Va fourrer ta mere!” He roared, wrenching his body back and forth. “Mange de la marde!”

“Fucking oath.” Sniper glanced over his shoulder as he ascended the van steps backwards. “And you called me a spoiled brat.”

“Non! Arrrghhh, non!” Spy grabbed the door frame. “Mange de la marde!”

“You said that one already!”

“I’m not going in dere!”

“Oh, yea you are.” Sniper planted his feet on the floor and tugged. Rested. Then tugged again. It reminded him of the time they had had sex in the driver’s seat of his van. “C’mon, you bastard,” he gasped, “just fucking co-operate for once.”

Spy grunted as each pull tested his grip. “Christ. De. Plote. Sale.” The door frame was abruptly ripped from his grasp and he tumbled backwards onto Sniper, the smell and feel of him provided a dizzying contrast to the hopeless solitude of before. The ceiling careened overhead and the precious seconds Spy could have used to escape slipped away. “You’ll find somebody else to fuck. Leave me alone.”

He was gently rolled aside.

Sniper stood up and shut the door. “You need some coffee.”

There were a thousand implications hidden beneath that statement and it bothered Spy that he was far too drunk to unscramble any of them. He grunted noncommittally and slowly sat up. It was then that he fully realized he was laying on Sniper’s filthy camper floor—even the same cup of coffee was there, farther along in its metamorphosis into a sentient creature than the last time.

“Ugh!” He lurched to his feet and tore off his jacket in a drunken frenzy. “All dat dirt is on me. All over. I can feel it.” He flung his jacket against the far wall and flopped heavily on the bed, energy spent. “Even de coyotes won’t ‘ave a bite of my corpse after dis.”

The coffee maker began to burble in the awkward silence that followed. A raspy cough caught Spy’s attention. He turned to see Sniper leaning over the counter, shoulders trembling ever so slightly. He turned away and tried to ignore the hoarse breathing. It was something he shouldn’t have seen. It was—inappropriate.

“Demo. Now you.” Sniper straightened but didn’t turn around. “This has something to do with your dreams.”

“I don’t know.” Spy leaned towards his discarded jacket and plucked his disguise kit from its inside pocket. He lit a cigarette and stretched across the bed with a deep inhalation. The enormity of what he was going to to do started to settle in his bones. Suicide. The unfathomable chasm he fell into before the respawn system plucked him out of Death’s clutches. He suddenly felt very old and tired, and all the fight left him as he exhaled a stream of smoke. “Doesn’t matter. Forget about it.”

“Yea, I’ll just do that.” The Australian finally turned around, eyes hard and narrowed, face deeply lined. “You start something and then run off when everything turns to shit.”

“Dat is de general idea of espionage, oui.” The rush of nicotine started to counter the haze of alcohol. “What does it matter, anyway? If your Scottish cyclops knew something, den obviously somebody else does, too.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yea, yea.” Sniper poured the coffee into two mugs and set them pointedly on the table. “Don’t care about anything, don’t believe in anything. Got the spine of a bloody jelly fish.” He sat down with a heavy sigh. “C’mere. Just…sit for bit.”

Spy exhaled another bloom of blue smoke and watched his cigarette slowly wither towards its filter. His eyes flicked up to Sniper’s face, which was tense but mostly unreadable, and then caught sight of the man’s clenched fists. He took another drag on his smoke, stood up, and took a seat opposite of the sharpshooter. “Maybe,” he admitted casually and sipped his coffee. “You ‘aven’t ‘ad cause to complain before now.” It was made just the way he liked it.

And there were a thousand implications in that thought he did understand.

He grimaced and flicked his ashes in the nearby tray kept there for his use.

Sniper caught the look on his face. “Wot?”

The pleasant haze that had stood between Spy and the world had partially disintegrated. He cursed himself for not bringing enough alcohol and tried to regain his composure. “I’m just disappointed.” He drank more coffee, not breaking eye contact over the rim of his cup. “All dis for a name?”

“I’ve been killing your soldier a lot longer then that, mate.”

“It’s your job to kill BLUs,” Spy retorted, “myself included.”

Sniper took a long drink from his cup. Gauntlet thrown. Challenge accepted. “Not after ceasefire.” He set his coffee down sharply. “Remember? Just after midnight. The lights cut out in your base and he chased you down that hall with a bucket of red paint and a shovel?”

“‘e cut de power.” Spy turned away and took a long drag on his cigarette. “‘e’s always up to some crazy bullshit ding. Nothing new.”

“He thinks you’re the Devil.”

“I know dat!” He sounded sharper than he intended and moderated his tone for pride’s sake. “De man is delusional,” his eyes flicked up and down Sniper’s face, “and ‘e isn’t de only one.”

“Funny coming from you. Your own medic had to sedate you for Christ’s sake.”

Spy laughed. “Oui. So let me ‘ave my way for once, eh?” He squashed his cigarette butt in the tray and stood up, and was immediately reminded that he was still very drunk. He leaned on the table and favoured Sniper with a frank look. “I don’t know exactly what is between us. It doesn’t really matter. I’ll be gone and you’ll wake up someday and wonder when you smoked so much.” When Sniper said nothing, he gave a two-fingered salute and headed to the door. “Adieu.”

“To hell with that.” Sniper broke out of his reverie and his presence suddenly filled the camper. His body radiated violence and pure desperation, but none of it was visible on his face. It was oddly touching. He approached Spy with clenched fists and desperate eyes, and there was something exceptionally brittle about his demeanour. “You’re being drunk and stupid.” He pressed his hands on either side of Spy’s head to form a cage. “You really think I’m going to stand here with my thumbs up my arse while you go looking for happily ever after in the wrong end of a bullet?”

Spy merely sighed. “I actually like you. God ‘elp me, but I do.” He kissed Sniper on the lips and wasn’t surprised by the arms that clamped around his waist or the tongue that darted into his mouth. The mix of possessiveness and vulnerability was unique to Sniper. When they parted, he felt lighter. Emptier. But that made it easier to slip away. He didn’t have much left to give—except one last gift. “It’s Acelin,” he added.

Sniper regarded him warily. “Wot?”

“My name is Acelin.” Spy stroked his forearm affectionately. “I suppose we’re a bit beyond de whole ‘casual sex’ and ‘no names’ ding, aren’t we?”

“Don’t,” the Australian snarled and leaned back, “don’t even think of—”

Spy snatched the ashtray from the table’s edge and flung it at Sniper’s face. It was only by sheer luck that it smacked his nose and sent ashes into his eyes.

“Fuck!” He staggered back against the bed and furiously wiped his eyes.

The clinical part of Spy’s brain laughed at how ridiculous his last memory of Sniper would be: bent over, swearing, face and hair powdered with ash. The other part, the larger, drunker part, wished there had been time for one last fling. It would’ve been nice. Familiar. Sniper cared too much, but that was okay. Forgivable. In another life, maybe even endearing.

Spy leaned on the door and it opened with a loud groan. The desert air was brisk and sobering. “Good-bye, Barry.”

Sniper took two steps forward, caught his foot on the edge of the bed, and fell to his knees. He blindly reached towards the door. “Don’t do it, you stupid bloody spook.” When the door slammed shut, he roared, “Acelin!”

Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Spy was free.


	6. Chapter 6

The desert was cold and dark. Spy glanced around the compound, but nothing moved. It didn’t look like Sniper had started a pursuit yet. He cloaked anyway and crept around RED base towards the river. The steady beeps of enemy sentries were audible from an open window. He fought the instinctive urge to run and slipped into the shadows that collected on the other side of the RED’s base. It was a blind spot he had often used when his cloak needed to recharge (as it did now.) The enormity of what he was about to do made his hands shake. Nothing had made him feel so excited and anxious in…. He couldn’t remember. Too long.

He lit a cigarette when his cloak had returned to normal and continued his trek towards the other side of the compound. The moon was cold and stark and small in the sky. The river glistened icily underneath it. Spy rubbed his face as he approached the damaged fence.

There was nothing different about the desert beyond, save for the charred spot where RED’s demoman had ended his own life. A flat plain stretched along either side of the river, but eventually tapered back into a wide-mouthed chasm where the river slipped deeper into the earth until it became nothing more than a silver ribbon between shadows. But its enormity and newness nearly made him turn back. He sucked in a deep breath and stepped across the division between the fortresses and the rest of the world.

Spy started running.

He understood why RED’s demoman had died on such a light-hearted note. He headed parallel to the river, arms raised, and laughed. It felt like he was taking flight. Everything was unfamiliar. The scents of the desert were wild and untouched by gunpowder and machine exhaust. There was an end to it all. He didn’t know whether it evoked more joy or anguish, but he felt something and that was what mattered. He could die knowing that.

A nearby outcropping of rock made Spy slow and turn his attentions back to the river. He braved the edge to see it flowing in the distance. The sheer volume of empty space between him and the ground below was dizzying, and threatened to draw him over the edge. He flicked his cigarette away and glanced at his disguise kit. Three cigarettes left. Well, it would be a shame to waste them. He sat down and lit another in one smooth gesture. A cool breeze picked up and dragged sand along in hissing sweeps.

His headache returned as a dull throb. He was accustomed to it and merely closed his eyes to push the pain aside. The ringing in his ears came and went of its own accord. By the time he had finished smoking, any care he might have held for the puzzle spread before him and everyone in it had been neatly compartmentalized away. He only had to take four steps to the edge and it would be finished. No dreams. No obligations. No messy tangles with Sniper.

A crowd of anonymous people cheering in a blizzard hung in the back of his mind. Bits and pieces of memories, snapshots of other lives, threatened to swarm him if he thought about them for too long. The last dream had been the most vivid, but no more informative. Ordinary, almost. There was no question in his mind that it was all real. It caused too much pain not to be. Even thinking about it made a sharply-edged hole yawn underneath his ribcage. It was real grief inflicted by real tragedies.

But it was over. Done. His part in that theatre was finished.

Spy stood up and did a cursory check of his surroundings. The desert was flat and limitless. Martian. He sighed and turned back to the cliff’s edge, acutely aware of the wind against his back. Fear and yearning sent a shiver down his spine. Respawn only allowed them a moment’s peace before it was back to war. The prospect of ending that torturous cycle felt unreal. He inched towards the cliff’s edge and examined the way down. If he jumped there, he could avoid being hit during the fall. It was possible.

Finally.

He braced himself on the brink and felt the dizzying sweep of air rush up from the canyon below. He shut his eyes and imagined the fall. It gave him a profound sense of relief. They would call him a coward. A madman. But what would it matter? He would be a ghost. Free. Yet thoughts of Sniper made him open his eyes and study the drop before him. An unexpected rush of guilt climbed his throat like vomit. Strange how having sex with another man based on nothing more than attraction and desperation could turn into something else. It was the sort of soppy cliche that happened to other people. Weaker people.

“Weird feeling, innit?”

BLU Sniper sat comfortably below, his body wedged in a narrow path that sloped down an eroded part of the cliff face and abruptly dropped off into space. He looked unnaturally comfortable there with his knees folded against his chest and rifle tucked in his arm.

“Tabarnak!” Spy automatically reached for his gun. “What…? It’s you.” After a moment’s hesitation, he collapsed to one knee. “‘ow long ‘ave you been ‘ere?”

“Since I started dreaming.” BLU Sniper said it so casually that Spy nearly dismissed his meaning. “You know,” he glanced upward, eyes startlingly blue, “from before.”

“What? No.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to know. I don’t care.”

“Sure you do. You always know the most.”

“What de fuck does dat mean?”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” BLU Sniper shifted and dislodged several small pebbles. “Go on. Jump.”

Spy glanced away self-consciously. “Is dat why you’re ‘ere?”

“Yea.” After an awkward silence, he sighed irritably. “Look, mate, I’m not an Olympic judge. If you want to jump, just do it.”

“You started talking to me,” Spy retorted, “and you ‘aven’t answered my question.”

“Cuz you looked scared.” BLU Sniper shook his head. “That crow eater sent you for a loop, didn’t he?” He laughed harshly. “He propose yet?”

Spy scowled angrily, all visions of a grand, poetic death extinguished. “What is going on?”

“Thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t.” He straightened, shoulders an agonized line. After another pause, he asked, “Do de others know anything?”

“No.”

“Will dey?”

“Haven’t so far.”

Spy sighed explosively and rubbed his face. “Fuck.”

“Yea.” BLU Sniper sounded tired. “I couldn’t do it, either.”

-

The walk back was a fog occasionally pierced by a putrid gush of shame. Spy loosened his tie until it hung like a noose around his neck and absently searched for a cigarette. It took him several seconds to realize he had already smoked them all, and that nearly took what strength was left out of his body. He felt hot and weak even with a cold wind on his face. The compound slowly grew in size and detail with every step he put forward, and when he neared the broken fence, he caught sight of a restless silhouette. Someone approached the parameter like a wary wolf. Stopped. Turned towards him. Watched him without moving.

Sniper.

Everything was different. Spy could feel it in the empty space between them. In the way his lover rose to his full height, his profile denied any features by the night shadows. In the way a solid block of dread settled into his stomach that was so raw and real, he nearly failed to recognize it. He drew in a shuddering breath as he walked through the broken fence. That invisible boundary between them and the world felt as real and tangible as his own body. The smell of cooked flesh still clung to the ground nearby as a testament to the stunning finale of RED Demoman’s life.

When he came within arm’s reach, Spy caught a glimpse underneath the brim of Sniper’s ever-present slouch hat. He froze when he saw no anger. No grief. Just a pale, blank expression and the wet gleam of eyes. It was a frightening response even from a normally stoic man.

He had killed Sniper thousands of times in thousands of different ways. It shouldn’t have been so hard to abandon him. To take and discard him on a whim. It was part of the job. Part of who and what Spy was. And yet there he stood before Sniper, completely naked. No lies. No excuses. No facades.

Sniper reached out and touched his face, fingers sliding across his right eye, cheek, and then down to his lips. The familiar smells of coffee and metal provoked an unexpected rush of feeling that wobbled up his throat like a bubble to the ocean surface. Spy screwed his eyes shut when Sniper’s other hand pressed against the left side of his jaw; warm, calloused, and familiar. His legs felt like jelly.

“No mask.” Sniper sounded faintly surprised. “It’s you.”

“Oui.”

Spy opened his eyes when Sniper’s hands fell from his face. He caught a blur of movement before a mean right cross slammed into the flesh between his eye and temple. His skull bounced against the ground before he realized he had fallen down. Sniper towered over him, knuckles split and bleeding on one hand, with his teeth bared like an animal. When he bent down, Spy expected another punch and raised his hands to protect his face.

Instead, Sniper grasped his hand and yanked him into a sitting position. “M’sorry,” he rasped. “I just…shit.” He rubbed his eyes and exhaled heavily. “You drive me up the bloody wall, y’know that? You’re always up to something and half the time it gets you killed.” His hand fell away to reveal his heavy expression. “I’m getting really tired of watching you die.”

A thousand replies crowded Spy’s head, but the one that left his lips was, “I ‘ave to piss.”

Sniper’s eyes widened. “Wot?”

Spy actually blushed. “Er, oui. I ‘ad lots to drink.” He looked away to hide his mortification. “So, I’m going now.”

“My camper’s right there,” Sniper replied, scandalized. “Can’t you wait?”

“Dat’s not what I meant!” He lowered his head and rubbed the hot, throbbing lump forming under his mask. He had almost forgotten what a normal headache felt like. “Just go away.”

“You’re still drunk.” Sniper sounded relieved.

“I’m not!”

“You are. C’mere.”

“Non.” Spy flinched from the Australian’s touch. “Non! Stop ‘elping me.” He stood up without any assistance, acutely aware of the awkwardness between them. There were few things that he regretted doing in his life, but their last conversation was one of them. It had been so maudlin. So honest. He wiped dust from his sleeve and rallied himself admirably, considering. “Now,” he said coolly, “I am going back i—”

Sniper’s shoulder dug into his abdomen and drove all the air from his lungs. The world did a summersault and Spy found himself staring at the ground with blood rushing to his head and his lover’s arms tightly wrapped around his legs. He hung like a sack of potatoes, stunned. His bladder felt fit to burst.

“Shut up, Acelin.” Sniper growled, stubbled cheek pressed against Spy’s hip. “You’re not leaving my sight.”

The unexpected use of his name gave Spy the incentive to struggle. He planted both hands on his lover’s back and tried to pry himself loose like a cork from a wine bottle. “You’re being,” he paused for breath before redoubling his efforts, “ridiculous.”

“I’m being ridiculous?” Sniper’s gait changed as he tensed. “You must be joking.”

“Non! You are—”

“Not another word. Hear me?” The Australian’s voice dipped to a quiet growl. When Spy made to speak again, he stopped walking altogether. “Acelin.”

There was something very dangerous in Sniper’s tone. Spy froze, suddenly aware of how vulnerable he was slung over his lover’s shoulder. Both his knife and revolver were pinned between his ribs and Sniper’s shoulder, and there was no way he could reach them in time to defend himself. He swallowed his embarrassment and tried to divine Sniper’s next move by the way muscles shifted under his body.

“Better,” Sniper muttered after a moment, and started to walk again. Despite the fact that he was carrying a man of his size, he wasn’t out of breath. “Can’t describe wot the past thirty minutes were like.” His fingers tightened. “So I won’t bother.”

Spy winced and tried shifting backwards to loosen Sniper’s grip, to no avail. “Dat ‘urts.”

“Good. Get used to it.”

“Dis is so stupid.” Spy glanced around as they neared Sniper’s van. “All of dis is so stupid.” His voice had an unsteady edge. “What do you want from me? Just let me go.”

Sniper stopped and relaxed so suddenly that Spy slid off his shoulder and landed on his ass. He grunted like a wounded animal and stared up at the sky. The Milky Way was a bright slash of colour that swerved overhead like the coloured glass in a marble. Sniper’s head eclipsed it, his expression indiscernible in the poor lighting. Spy waited for the fight to restart, resigned to whatever drama was about to take place, but he just stood there. The days when they could just fuck things out were over. Just like that.

A tense pause hung between them until Sniper bent down on one knee and took off his hat. His expression was invisible, but the tension in his shoulders wasn’t.

“You’re always slipping through my fingers,” he said. “You don’t care about living or dying as long as you’re not in pain. But I fucking care. I have to watch you die in my scope all day long and it drives me daft.” He inhaled shakily and put his hat over his heart. “Wot I want is for you to be around when this is over.”

“Oui,” Spy replied, “but first ding’s first. I need your bathroom.”

“Fucking oath.” Sniper laughed hoarsely and hung his head. “You got a way of ruining moments, don’t you?”

“Oui.”

Sniper donned his hat silently, wounded.

Well, shit.

Spy swallowed convulsively and pushed himself into a sitting position. It shouldn’t have been so awkward. They were both grown men. Both grown, bloodied men. Killing men. And yet his arms had gone rubbery. Sweat tickled underneath his mask. He took a deep breath and leaned forward, eyes closed. He was so nervous that he missed Sniper’s lips altogether and kissed the corner of his mouth instead. He froze, torn between embarrassment and terror, but a huff of warm air swept across his cheek. Something not quite a laugh. The edge of Sniper’s mouth curled upward against his lips, and relief flooded his body.

Spy was forgiven.

-

His fly was jammed.

“Non.” Spy tilted his hips forward and looked down at the zipper, which had a tuft of his briefs caught between its teeth. “Ohhhh, non non non.” He tried to wrench it down, to no avail, and nearly sobbed with frustration. His bladder felt like a thin-skinned balloon and the prospect of further delays forced him to bend over to keep from pissing his pants. “Tabarnak,” he groaned and pressed his forehead against the ugly beige counter.

“You alright?” Sniper asked hesitantly, voice muffled by the door.

“Oui.” Spy straightened once he was certain his bladder wouldn’t empty on the spot. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t sound fine.”

“You forget dat I’m a spy,” he paused and gave a Herculean pull on his zipper, “and so how I am and how I sound are two,” he sucked in a breath and pulled up rather than down, “completely different dings.” He jumped twice and finally his fly zipped up again.

“Wot are you doing in there?”

Spy propped his foot on the toilet bowl and bent his head forward. He slowly unzipped his fly with the air of a man about to cut the wire of an armed explosive, and when he came to the teeth that had clamped around his briefs, he used both hands to pull down and away. Bit by agonizing bit, he managed to drag it all the way open. His bladder felt ready to pop.

“Oh dank God,” he sighed, on the verge of a religious experience, and started to urinate.

“Oh no you don’t!”

Sniper yanked the door open and hit him square between his shoulder blades. Spy squawked as urine arced wildly across the toilet, the mirror, and onto the floor. “What de fuck?” He roared over his shoulder. “I just pissed on myself!”

“Fucking oath!” Sniper looked flabbergasted. “I thought you were—stop piddling on the floor.” He grabbed Spy’s cock with the intention of redirecting its aim, only to have an elbow plough into his diaphragm. He retreated two steps and bent over, winded.

Spy righted himself and stood over the toilet again, only to hear a faint trickle fade into awkward silence. He sucked in a sharp breath and flushed the toilet, too stunned to do anything but zip up his pants. “Well,” he said brightly and washed his hands in the tiny, shell-shaped sink, “dat was interesting.” He avoided looking in the mirror as he flicked excess water from his fingertips and searched for a towel, but there as none.

Of course there fucking wasn’t.

When there was no answer, Spy slid his gloves on and turned around. Sniper was bent over, his shoulders shaking.

He was laughing.

“Christ de plote sale!” Spy snapped, nearly sick with relief. “You’re being an asshole.”

“I’m being an asshole?” Sniper straightened, breathless. “I’m not the one who just pissed on the floor. And the mirror. And…well everything but the loo.”

“Consider it payment for all de times you drew dose jars of piss at me.” He unbuttoned his soiled jacket and held it at arm’s length. “Look at dis. Disgusting.”

“Here.” Sniper grabbed his jacket, turned, and threw it unceremoniously on the bed. “I’ll make some more coffee.”

“Dank you.”

The coffee maker burbled quietly in the awkward silence that followed. “Look, I know you think I’m just a dirty wanker from the GAFA, but I’m not blind.” Sniper searched the cupboards for a clean mug. “You know something. Got your greasy little fingers in it.” He brought a plain white mug down hard on the countertop. “And you walked out of here expecting to just wash your hands of it.” He shook his head like a beaten dog. “Just…walk off into the distance and to hell with anyone else.”

Spy leaned back against the seat. “Where de fuck do you….” He paused and collected himself. “I dought I was going crazy. Seeing dings.” His eyes flicked downwards. “I dought I’d end up like Soldier.”

Sniper poured his coffee, expression blank. “Wot changed your mind?”

“I just met someone with de same problem.”

“Imagine meeting another nutter here.” Sniper snorted belligerently. “Give me a break, mate.”

Spy blinked slowly, stood up, turned, and opened the door.

“Aw shit, Acelin, don’t.” Sniper grabbed his wrist, fingers tight with emotions that didn’t touch his face.

“I am tired and I ‘ave run out of cigarettes.” Spy jerked his hand free. “I don’t ‘ave de patience for one of your shit fits.”

“I took a bullet in the head because of you,” Sniper growled softly. “I listened to you piss and moan about the state of the fucking universe. I had to watch you leave. The least you can do is tell me what’s going on.”

“Do you ‘ave cigarettes?” He demanded.

Sniper stilled, throat working furiously. “Yea, I have cigarettes.” He withdrew a worn red carton out of his pants pocket. If the prospect of having a world-altering conversion half-naked bothered him, he didn’t show it. He merely threw it at Spy and gestured to the nearest seat, which was the only chair in the van. He sat on the bed, coffee in hand. “So tell me, then.”

Spy scratched his brow, sighed, and sat down. “Lighter?” It was thrown at him with more force than necessary. “Ow! Jesus Christ, Barry.”

“Quit stalling.”

“Be quiet.” Spy shut his eyes and took a long drag. He exhaled slowly and said, “I will explain dis only once.”

Sniper nodded.

“Okay.” Where to start? He took another drag on his cigarette. “I ‘ave been seeing dings ever since I was ‘eld over in the respawn machine. Dreams. Memories.” He shrugged uneasily. “Moments dat I do not remember ‘appening ‘ere.” He examined the lighter in his hand, face perfectly composed. “I didn’t know your name before dat respawn. I still don’t know ‘ow I know it, but I do. Which means dat de dings I’ve seen are probably real.” He leaned back in the chair and loosened his tie. “If dat is true, den we ‘ave been ‘ere much longer dan six months.”

Sniper nodded again, eyes fixed on his coffee. When Spy didn’t break the silence, he felt it was safe to speak. “How long?”

“Years,” Spy answered flatly. “Our engineer examined de respawn machines. Dey are designed to bring us back based on a template. And you probably remember dat we were all scanned in on de day we arrived ‘ere. As long as de machines are maintained, we will always be brought back to dat original state.” He pointed to his temple. “It’s perfect to control perceptions. De simplest way to end de fighting would have been to sabotage one of de respawn machines. But no one has. No one dought of it. Not even de spies.”

After a long pause, Spy sighed and continued. “We ‘ave been fucking for ‘alf a year without telling each other our names. We must ‘ave been together for considerably longer for you to tell me dat.” He glanced out the window. “It feels like we ‘ave been ‘ere for a long time.”

“And that we’ve gotten together more than once without remembering it?”

Spy looked at him, unblinking.

“Sorry,” Sniper mumbled into his coffee mug.

“Oui.” He crossed his legs and relented. “Dese machines are complex. Dey need maintenance. It makes sense dat dere is some sort of break in de cycle. People come in,” he made a sweeping gesture, “make repairs, and den it all starts over again.” He shrugged again. “At least, dat is de standing deory between myself and our sniper.”

“Jesus.” Sniper set his mug down on the table and rubbed his eyes. “Why?”

Spy squashed the butt of his cigarette into the cracked ashtray and lit another one. “Testing de machines. De weapons. De ‘uman body.” He sighed wearily. “Why not? Dey ‘ave us squirrelled away from civilization. Dey could do anything.”

“You’d think if one company pulled this, the other would catch on quick.”

“Oui. Dey would.”

Sniper looked at him, then at the floor. “Shit.”

Spy smiled thinly. “Are you still glad dat I came back?”

Sniper punched him with enough force to knock the cigarette out of his mouth, then walked around the table and yanked him into a ferocious hug.


	7. Chapter 7

A cheering crowd. Applause, blessings, whistles. Swirling confetti in the air.

And there, descending down the steps, his darling Elyse was a vision in her white dress with her arm twined with her husband’s. Happy. Unaware that he was there. She walked past in a sweep of perfume and laughter, and revealed a familiar face on the opposite side of the church steps. His time had run out.

Still, he watched her drift away, the crowd sealing shut behind her. Her white lace veil drifted above the sea of well-wishers for a heartbeat longer, then sank out of sight.

‘Good-bye, my pet.’

Hands clamped around his arms.

‘I am so sorry.’

Spy woke up on his back with a painful ache in his shoulders. He swallowed hard and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Grief stung his eyes, clutched his throat, but even then, even alone, he refused to entertain anything other than counting down from 100. It wasn’t until he had done so three times before the feeling had lost its intensity. He sniffled loudly and concentrated on his surroundings.

It was still dark in his room and light from the hallway cut a bright thread beneath his door, silhouetting someone’s feet. He slipped out of bed, shivered in the cold air, and retrieved his revolver from the table. Four bullets. He recalled Soldier’s face after his last respawn and cocked the hammer.

“Open up, man.” Scout’s voice was a whisper, but he pounded on the door with rising urgency. “I know you’re awake.”

Scout. His personal herald of disaster.

“Open up!”

Spy examined the barrel of his gun and considered his next move. It was dangerous to be in the hall before daylight. Soldier was at his worst, and prowled the fort looking for the demons that kept him awake at night.

“Shit! Lemme in!” A tense pause. “He’s coming.”

Spy waited silently. He had learned his lesson the first time.

“C’mon, man.” It was the same terrified tone. The same plea. As if he was the only one in the base who could possibly intervene. “Jesus. Please let me in, man. Please.”

He remembered walking down the hallway and passing by a half-open door. Same tone. Same desperate face. Bloodied hand outstretched. Small and frightened under Soldier’s mumbling form. It had made sense then. He was just a boy, after all.

“Spy.”

He inhaled a shuddering breath.

No.

There was a deafening silence outside. Spy recognized it as the aftermath of a battle or a car crash. That all-consuming silence where the world had suddenly shifted. Where someone who had been alive was not. Where the everything was on the brink of being lost.

“He’s heading this way, you French fuck.”

Or was lost already.

“I know you’re not really French French, or whatever, but let me in.” There was another gulf of silence, more brief and desperate then that last. “Help me out, man.”

Fuck.

“Help me.”

Fuck fuck fuck.

“Spy,” Scout’s voice had plummeted to a terrified whisper, “he’s there, man, he’s he’s coming down this hallway and he’s got that shovel, man, you gotta open the door.”

The dream flashed through his mind’s eye. Cheering, laughing brightness….

Spy swallowed thickly. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, he pulled the chair away from the door, unlocked it and opened it just enough to look outside. Scout stood hunched against the door frame, head turned towards the end of the hall, his arms laden with two bowls of cereal.

“Boy,” Spy hissed, “you better ‘ave a good reason to be ‘ere.”

Scout jumped and shouldered his way inside, nearly knocking the revolver out of Spy’s hand. The door swung wide open and allowed a glimpse of Soldier’s shadow sliding up the opposite wall. Spy scrambled forward and closed it as quietly as he could, and jammed the chair back under the doorknob before locking it. There was a long moment of silence as they listened to Soldier approach. The confident rhythm of his stride made the hairs on Spy’s neck stand on end. He held his breath when scuffed standard issue boots interrupted the light beneath the door.

A horrible squealing burst in the silence. Screeching. Metal on metal. Spy side-stepped towards the left until he stood close to the wall. If Soldier burst through, he would get the first shot. God willing, it would be the final one. The teeth-grinding racket continued for a few moments more. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes, but it felt like an eternity. Spy briefly considered going for his disguise kit, then dismissed it. Scout was with him. It would all be for nothing.

The screeching stopped. Soldier’s steady footsteps continued down the hall until they became inaudible.

Thank Christ.

It was a while before Spy lowered his gun. His muscles ached with constant tension, but all he could do was watch the light beneath his door until his eyes strained under the effort. Scout was quiet behind him, which said enough. When he was certain the danger had passed, he headed to the bathroom, shut the door, and laid his revolver on the counter. The small mirror reflected a thin, care-worn man that prompted another wave of grief to prick his eyes. The fear he felt didn’t show on his face, but he didn’t leave until he gathered his wits.

When Spy opened the door, Scout sat in the floor eating his cereal in the dark. RED’s briefcase was tied to his back and brimmed with sheets of paper.

“So,” Spy leaned against the door frame and unloaded his revolver, “why did you come ‘ere?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Decided to hit breakfast early.”

“While carrying intelligence?”

Scout paused, spoon half-way to his mouth. “Yeah,” he replied and gave Spy a sharp, sleepless look. “Got a problem with that?” When there was no reply, he threw the spoon down on the table and crossed his arms. “I wanted to ask you stuff after RED’s demoman went apeshit.” He threw Spy a sour look. “But Solly just snaps your neck like a toothpick and screaming about how he killed the Devil, and you just respawn and go to bed like it’s not the craziest fucking thing you’ve ever seen. What the fuck?”

Spy tilted his head to the side. “You were worried.”

“Fuck you, man.” Scout gave a vicious stab to his cereal. “That’s what you do when somebody saves your ass, right? Don’t have to be such a dick about it.” His eyes flicked up over the lip of his bowl with a boyish mix of defiance and anxiety.

“I let you in ‘ere because you would ‘ave led Soldier straight to me,” Spy replied implacably, “not because I wanted to save your life.” He rummaged for one of Sniper’s cigarettes in his jacket and opened his window to smoke. He propped his elbows on the sill and ignored Scout completely.

“Fuck, you’re such a dickwad.” Scout’s voice thrummed with poorly concealed anger. “Fuck you. Now are you going to look at this or what?”

Spy exhaled a long stream of smoke. “It’s de same old shit. It can wait until morning.”

“I’m not.”

A headache began to form and it took him a moment to gather enough energy to stitch together a sneer. “Oh?” He glanced over his shoulder. “So eager to go back to Soldier, eh?”

Scout’s voice lowered in a way that made him sound old. “That’s not funny, man. You were fucking there.”

Spy merely took another drag. Scout had never known what had happened afterward, and he was forever grateful that was the case. It made distance easier to re-establish. He scratched the back of his neck and turned away, and caught a small red spot just below the window ledge. Ah. They had an audience, then. He rubbed his temple and finished his cigarette with a hard drag. The thought of Sniper on the other side of the river made things a little easier to bear.

“Alright, Scout. You can stop sulking now.” He flicked his cigarette out the window, closed it, and turned the lights on. Things felt a little more normal. “Show me what you’ve found.”

Scout finished his breakfast before he did shrugged off the briefcase. He shoved it along the ground and crossed his arms, head turned aside. “There.”

“Merci,” Spy muttered caustically as he bent down and picked it up. The entire contents spilled onto the floor with a raspy rush that nearly destroyed his composure. Scout grinned at him when he lifted the briefcase and saw the lock had been smashed open. “Your handiwork, I assume?”

“Yeah.” He laughed his ridiculous little teenager laugh. “That’s for being a douchebag.” He rifled through the pile, grabbed one of the documents before Spy could fathom a proper response, and held up for inspection. “This is why I woke you up before. Y’know. After you went crazy and stuff. Cuz I figured you’d already read it, but then you couldn’t have cuz you were all drugged up but I didn’t remember till now. So, here.”

A likely story. Spy’s lips curled humourlessly, but he accepted the paper offered to him. It was the usual dry recital of schematics and secrets. He scanned it all, but found nothing out of the ordinary, and turned it over merely to alleviate some of his irritation. Messy handwriting decorated the back that sloped downwards tow2ards the right.

His handwriting.

“Figured someone was trying to make a point.” Scout shrugged and propped his elbows on his knees. “That demo guy from the RED team?”

“Non.” Spy backed up to his bed and sat down suddenly. “Dis is my ‘andwriting,” he replied shakily, “but I don’t remember ever writing it.”

“Shit, really?” Scout shot him an astonished look. “What’s it say?”

Spy opened his mouth, but no sound came out. It was too much. He dropped the page, which fell at a sharp angle like a leaf, and buried his head in his hands. His ears rang. Scout sounded far away as he stood and picked the page off the floor.

“‘The show must go on’? The fuck does that mean?” There was an expectant pause. “Yo, I’m talking to you.”

Fingers grasped Spy’s hands and tore them away from his face. He looked up in time to meet Scout’s indignant gaze, which instantly turned to apprehension, and distantly wondered what his face looked like to get such a reaction. He bowed his head and felt a deep ache from his stomach to his mouth. A tremor started in his shoulders and spread into his chest until he could only take sharp, shallow breaths.

“Are you fucking crying?” Scout took a step back, repulsed.

Spy didn’t answer.

“God.” He leaned forward and made a loud clap an inch from the Quebecois’ face. “Shut-up! You hear me? Shut up and be a fucking man.”

It was so unexpected that Spy did exactly that. He jerked back, startled, only to have a piece of paper thrust towards his face. On it, “The show must go on,” stood out in his own hurried script.

“This.” Scout’s face loomed over the page’s edge. “What does this mean? And don’t go crying on me again like some fucking pussy.”

He was so obviously uncomfortable that, in other circumstances, Spy would have laughed. He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to fight a rising tide of mortification. His sinuses felt ready to burst and his head ached, which only added another layer of discomfort to an already horrible night’s rest. Scout had enough sense for once to wait until he was ready to speak.

“I don’t know what it means,” he relied wearily, “and dat means I can’t fix it.”

Scout frowned. “Fix what?”

“Us, Scout. I can’t fix us.”

“That’s it? We’re fighting a war and you’re bawling your faggy French eyes out because you can’t fix us?” Scout’s eyes suddenly flared. “The fuck does that even mean? Are you talking about my Dad? Is that it? Cuz I’ll frigging deck you, man.”

“No, I meant everyone—”

“Fuck, forget I asked then.” Scout dropped the second bowl of cereal into Spy’s lap, which split milk on his trousers and bed sheets, and turned away in a fluster. “Just shut up, eat, and forget the dad bullshit.”

Spy stared blindly at his back for a moment, then fished his spoon out of the milk and ate.


	8. Chapter 8

“What are those pricks doing now?” Scout hefted his bat across his shoulder and squinted at the REDs gathered by the fence.

“Looks like a funeral of some sort,” Engineer replied. He scribbled a quick equation on the blueprint unfurled across his lap, then reached for the BLU Streak by his foot. “Damn strange thing altogether.”

“Yeah.” Scout glanced at Spy, who leaned against the fort’s wall with his arms crossed. “We going to go kick their asses or what?”

Engineer scowled. “Where’s your respect, boy?” He took a long pull on his beer. “They’ll be plenty of time for killing tomorrow. Leave ‘em be.”

Scout turned back to Spy. “Help me out here. This is bullshit.”

“It’s all bullshit,” he replied flatly.

“Well, fuck you too!” Scout threw his arms up in disgust and stomped inside. “Fucking pussies.”

Engineer shook his head and made another note on his newest sentry model. Spy opened his disguise kit and eyed the last few cigarettes that Sniper had given him. After a brief debate, he plucked one out, lit it, and took a long drag. There was no wind so the smoke drifted upwards in lazy spirals. Although it was early, the sun already risen towards its zenith. The sky was a hot, cloudless indigo that stretched uninterrupted from horizon to horizon. There were no airplanes. No distant sounds of traffic. No signs that another pocket of humanity existed outside their compound.

He should have jumped.

“Spah?” Engineer didn’t turn around. “Are you alright?”

“Oui.”

“You’ve been awfully quiet lately.”

“Oui.”

Engineer glanced over his shoulder. “Are you going to tell us what the hell is going on?”

“Nothing is going on. De RED’s demoman was out of ‘is mind.” Spy took a drag on his cigarette. “Who cares what ‘e said.”

“Now, Spah, don’t be difficult.” He turned his attention back to his schematics. “I just figured I’d ask you nicely before someone got insistent.”

Spy rubbed his forehead. After a long pause, he said, “Labourer, if I knew something dat would make a difference, I would tell you.” He avoided Engineer’s curious stare. “Until den, you’re better off in de dark.”

“Why?”

“It’s just better dat way.”

Engineer pulled his goggles down around his neck. His eyes were somewhere between blue and green, and contrasted sharply with his tanned skin. He was indeed a beautiful man.

“That’s not a good way for a man to live,” he said.

Spy smiled faintly around his cigarette. “Dat is de business.”

The REDs bent their heads and their Medic’s German brogue floated on the breeze. The words were indistinct, but their meaning was universal. Grief. He could see a camaraderie in the RED team much different from the practical alliances that dictated life in the BLU base. Even the spy had been drawn into the open, uncloaked and vulnerable, to pay respect in whatever make-shift ceremony they had deemed appropriate. Spy sneered at his back, but couldn’t summon the energy to be truly angry. What was the point? He took a long drag when his eyes fell on Sniper, who held his slouch hat over his chest, and tried to stifle the mortification rising in his throat.

That man knew his name. Knew his secrets. And he had yielded both of his own freewill.

Spy exhaled noisily and flicked his cigarette into the dirt. At Engineer’s cocked brow, he shrugged. “I am going inside. It’s too ‘ot to be oogling.”

Engineer chuffed. “And here I thought you Canadians were hardasses.”

“We pretend to be when dere are Americans around,” Spy parried and walked inside. Engineer’s laughter slid down his back like warm water.

It was uncomfortably cool inside. He picked his way down the hall, ears straining for the sound of Soldier’s heavy tread, but he could only hear the air conditioning. As often happened in off hours, the base was quiet. When there was no immediate business to be handled, everyone retreated to their own room and avoided contact. Soldier was the largest problem, but both Heavy and Demo proved vicious when they were drunk, and Engineer was the only man who could loiter in the common room without fear.

As Spy walked turned a corner, he heard screaming. Soldier’s screaming. He froze and listened, and quietly flicked open his balisong. It was coming from Medic’s room. When he followed Soldier’s voice, he found Scout hovering outside the door wearing a tight expression.

“What are you doing?”

Scout blinked slowly and looked at Spy as if he had just woken up. “What? Oh.” He shrugged. “I was wondering what all the bitching was about. Captain America in there wanted to trash the RED’s place while they out there mourning and shit.”

“And dey’re sedating ‘im,” Spy deduced.

“Yeah.” Scout looked at him with thinly veiled emotion. “He’s going to be pissed when he wakes up.”

“Oui. Best not to loiter, den.” Another furious bellow filled the hallway, partially muffled by the door. Spy tensed against his will and forced himself to fold his butterfly knife, if only because Scout’s gaze had latched onto it. “Block your door, boy. Dis would be a prudent time to be…unavailable.”

“No fucking kidding,” Scout muttered.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Spy frowned and turned as BLU Sniper appeared around the corner. He looked dirty and scruffy, his lips crushed into a bloodless line. “Hey,” he grunted and turned when another shout broke the silence. “Soldier getting an enema?”

Spy almost smiled. “If only.”

Sniper jerked his chin in Spy’s direction. “Gotta talk to you, mate.” His too casual tone spoke volumes. “C’mere.”

“Okay.” Spy glanced at Scout. The boy wore the empty-eyed look of a survivor. “‘ey,” he snapped his fingers, “if ‘e pulls any crazy shit tonight, you ‘ide.”

“I know, man. I know.” Scout lifted his head slowly. “You guys going to be around?”

Sniper shrugged noncommittally. “Probably not.”

Spy glanced at him, then at Scout. An ugly sense of responsibility dug into his stomach. Stupid boy. “Barricade your door. Or mine.”

Scout looked stunned. “Yeah,” he gave Spy a once over, “thanks, man.”

“Whatever.” Spy flicked lint off of his sleeve. “I believe you ‘ad something to tell me, Sniper?”

“Yea.” BLU Sniper turned away with smirk on his face. “C’mon.”

_

“So, what is dis about?” Spy asked once they had exited the back entrance of the base.

“I need to show you something.” BLU Sniper hefted his backpack over his shoulder. There was a distinct slosh of water. “It’s not far, but it’ll be hot as hell.”

Spy glanced at the sun, which had just passed its zenith, and hung overhead like the eye of an angry god. His bottom lip cracked when he mouthed another cigarette, but he didn’t complain. They walked to the fence and couldn’t help but glance to the REDs lingering at the other side of the compound. Despite the mounting heat of the day, none of them had moved.

BLU Sniper walked to a particular place in the fence and nudged the ground. An old square board shifted out of the way, dislodging sand, and revealed a small hole.

“Ah, so dat is how you go and ‘unt.”

“A man’s gotta roam.” BLU Sniper shouldered his backpack off and held it against his belly, then slid underneath the fence in one liquid movement. Spy glanced around out of habit before grimacing and doing the same. The ground was cool against his back as he drug himself underneath the fence, its edges catching his suit. He growled to himself when he heard something rip.

“Dis better be good,” he hissed, arching his back despite numerous twinges in his muscles.

“Course it fucking is.” BLU Sniper curled his lip. “Think I’d talk to you again if it wasn’t?”

“You’re a prick today.” Spy dragged himself over the lip of the hole and stood upright. His suit was already stained with sweat and dirt, and clung to him in an uncomfortable fashion. He unbuttoned his jacket, slid his cigarette to the other side of his mouth, and followed BLU Sniper into the desert.

The landscape was unfamiliar. Everything sloped and gained definition towards the river to the east, but the west was flat, cracked open space. Spy felt vulnerable. Mortal. He kept glancing over his shoulder, but nothing stirred besides loose sand. The compound sat like a wart on the ground that slowly sank into the horizon as they trudged onwards. He finished his cigarette and tossed it onto the ground, too hot and thirsty to bother with another.

“‘ow much further is dis place?” Spy loosened his tie, shirt soaked with sweat.

BLU Sniper paused only to toss him a canteen. “Not much,” he grunted.

‘Not much’ turned into two miles. Spy knew enough about wilderness survival to drink his water slowly, but a headache throbbed between his temples and the ground had a disconcerting habit of veering underneath him. He mopped the sweat out of his eyes and focused on BLU Sniper’s back. He didn’t sweat very much and showed no signs of slowing down.

“Why de hell are we walking in de desert in de middle of de fucking afternoon?”

“We need the shadows.”

Spy stumbled mid-step, baffled. “Oh.”

They kept walking until BLU Sniper halted over a nondescript patch of dirt. There was nothing unusual about the area besides the fact that it was hillier than before. Spy exhaled irritably and glanced around. Hazy blue mountains shimmered in the west, their foothills covered by slender white stalks that he couldn’t identify. Sunlight glinted off of metal. A highway? A futuristic version he would even recognize?

“Take a look.” BLU Sniper gestured to the desert before them. “A real good look.”

Spy looked at him, then walked forward and did a cursory inspection of the area. Nothing unusual. He frowned at the ground, then paused when he noticed that the shadows were cast in odd alignment. No. Surely not. He bent down despite the sun and brushed sand away from a broken lump of dirt. Concrete scraped against his fingers. It was a shattered support column of some sort and flecks of red paint still clung to one side. He backed away and took another look at the broken ground. Then it was obvious.

“Dis was a base,” he muttered incredulously.

“Yea. The BLU one is over there.”

Spy wiped his brow and regarded the misshapen lumps scattered across the desert. He summoned a map of the compound in his mind and slowly walked around the ruins. There was a difference in scale, but the basic layout was identical. He wandered in a daze around BLU Sniper, eyes fixed on the ground, and dusted off several jagged lumps of concrete. Rusted iron. Even a fractured portion of a wall had survived whatever force destroyed the place.

Had they really outlived the playground RED and BLU had given them?

Sniper watched him closely. After an uncomfortable moment of eye contact, he asked, “You remember anything?”

“Non.” Spy dragged his hand over his mask, eyes shut.

“Feh,” the Australian gave a disgruntled snort, “what good are you, then?”

“I am not your little psychic. I can’t just see dings on a whim.” He glared at BLU Sniper, then turned back towards the distant mountains. It was too hot to be anything but tired and useless. “Why didn’t you just run away?”

Sniper tipped his hat back and bent down to sweep dust away from a broken pipe. When he answered, he voice was soft and hoarse in a way that made Spy think of Barry. “I want to find who did this. And kill ‘em.” He took out a piece of gum and popped it into his mouth. “Bloody bastards have turned us into a bunch of nutters.”

Spy took a long drink of water and didn’t reply. His body felt heavy and unwieldy. After a moment of simply staring at the remnants of an I-beam, he glanced back at the compound. “We should go over dere.” He pointed towards the mountains. “I want to see what dose dings are.”

“If you want to play tourist, go right ahead.” BLU Sniper’s voice crackled with disappointment. “I’ll be going back.”

“Immortality ‘as killed your curiosity.” Spy toed the ground and noticed sand began to slide towards a dimple in the ground. He looked up only to see a blur of knuckles before he fell to the ground, which scorched whatever skin was left exposed to the sand.

“Don’t you fucking call it that,” Sniper growled, “don’t you fucking dare.”

“Why?” Spy stood up, rubbing his face. “Does dat scare you?”

BLU Sniper’s lips twitched, but he stepped away with slumped shoulders. “Course it does. And you’re a bloody idiot if it doesn’t scare you.” He gave Spy a flat look. “Mate, did you ever even think that even if we solved this whole mess, we’d come out all wrong?”

He had. Knew it deep in his flesh.

“Cheh,” he shrugged, “what is one more disappointment?” BLU Sniper gave him a pitying glance, which was more painful than any knife or bullet, and took a long drink from his own canteen. Spy raised his foot and shook the sand off of his shoe as an excuse to avoid eye contract. The ground had formed a shallow concave bowl where he had fallen and sand gathered around his feet. There was a strange sense of something moving underneath him.

Spy looked down, brows furrowed. “What de ‘ell.”

The ground simply opened up and a terrifying nothingness sat between Spy and utter darkness. He fell in at an angle, felt something swift and metallic nick his leg, and careened head first into oblivion.

Rushing air. A narrowing pinprick of light. Blackness. Screaming. The smell of water. Forehead tingling in anticipation of the inevitable impact.

Jesus, he thought hysterically, what a stupid way to d—


	9. Chapter 9

That God awful buzzing sound returned.

Spy woke up in absolute darkness and flailed wildly when his feet found no purchase on the steeply angled ground. He fell forward and slammed against something cold and metallic, and groaned loudly. His voice sounded muffled. Suffocated. Everything felt wet, fetid, and closed in. Christ, was it a dream? It had to be. He ran his hands along the surface of whatever he was leaning on and felt only a gradually curving expanse. It was metallic. Smooth. Cold. Damp. The sound of his own breathing sounded harsh in the enclosed space. He stumbled around, hands sliding cracked stone and….

He felt something solid and sharp and square. Rusted metal scraped his fingertips, but some of his anxiety receded for a moment. It was man-made. A closet? There had to be a way out. He scrabbled farther until he was certain he made a full circuit around the room. It was small. He could stretch his arms out and brush each side. When he stretched his arms upwards, his fingertips touched the ceiling. He braced himself against the wall and felt for a door, an opening. Something. The stress had hewn the ceiling into three pieces, but they overlapped each other in a precarious triangle with the weight of one piece against another keeping them all upright.

No door. No fresh air.

No escape.

“I need a cigarette,” he croaked, and sat against the nearest stable surface. A moment of dizziness made the darkness swirl; made all the more disconcerting by the lack of a focus point.

Only discomfort measured the passage of time. Spy got up and paced a bit, eventually memorizing the layout of the room, and then sat back down. His skin, especially his hands, began to heat and tingle. He tapped his fingers against the wall to distract himself and was startled by its muffled echo. Water was on the other side.

Spy closed his eyes, though it made no difference, and allowed a moment of mute panic. Then he inhaled a shuddering breath and fished out his lighter. A translucent blue flame unfurled in the darkness, a testament to the room’s dwindling oxygen, and held it up for a better view. Metal glinted in the faint light. He saw a vaguely cylinder tube in the middle. On one side leaned a rusted closet that only had one door attached by a single rusted hinge. The other had slid to the opposite side of the room, which disappeared beneath tightly packed debris. Old bits of paper littered the floor. The entire space had a vaguely triangular shape. The left was largely intact, but the floor underneath had obviously collapsed and led to the right side drooping without support. It was only by pure accident that it hadn’t flooded.

He stood up and lit a cigarette. His vision blurred and tilted weirdly, provoking a spike of nausea through his stomach. He leaned against the wall and waited for it to pass before investigating the room. Although no water had flooded the interior, dampness pervaded the air. What papers were still there had been ruined by age and moisture. He rifled through the shelves, but only found mundane debris of everyday life. A worn shoestring. Faded pictures. One was still partially intact and showed—Soldier. He looked very different out of uniform. The woman at his side looked voluptuous and happy. Spy sneered and flipped it over, but there was no writing. Nothing to indicate time. Soldier appeared the same age, although that meant nothing with the power to respawn. He took his cigarette and burned a hole through Soldier’s face. After a moment’s hesitation, he burned the woman’s face, too.

Spy tossed the picture onto the floor and continued his search through the empty shelves. A filthy sock. Half of a postcard bearing the faded remnant of cacti. Shadows grew in length and thickness as his lighter sputtered. He stopped as another wave of dizziness rolled over him and squeezed the air from his lungs. It was hot and he felt exhausted. His fingers shook when he flicked the lighter shut and everything sank into darkness. The only sound was his own laboured breathing.

Had the air been used up so quickly?

The prospect of dying alone in the wreckage of a past life sent a flutter of panic down Spy’s spine. He inhaled shakily and reached inside his coat and removed his revolver from its holster. The grip was unfamiliar. Different. He flicked the lighter on again, though the flame cast little light, and saw the sleek silver barrel of a semi-automatic pistol. A provocatively positioned woman had been engraved there.

Spy leaned against the wall and slid to the ground. “Scout’s mother,” he rasped weakly, and laughed as he imagined the boy’s face. Scout had never really forgiven him for taking those pictures of his mother and RED Spy (or spreading the rumour that RED Spy was his father.) Ah, Scout. Spy checked the the clip and was pleased to see it was full. The boy would find a new ally to close ranks with when Soldier made his rounds. He was smart—when he wanted to be. Life would go on.

The gun muzzle felt cold against Spy’s temple. His lighter guttered and died, and the darkness that swamped him was now permanent. He swallowed thickly and shut his eyes. It was the same darkness, but one of his own making.

He could accept that.

So he pulled the trigger.

_

A hum filled Spy’s ears, resonated behind his eyes and through his teeth, and down into his very bones. He landed badly and fell forward. Sparks illuminated the darkness and allowed him to see the BLU’s logo on the wall before he smacked his head against it. He recoiled wildly and fell onto the broken floor, and vomited. The air was hot and barren, and the stench of melted plastic filled the air. An uncomfortable tingle promptly began working its way across his skin again.

He had respawned.

“Non non non,” he gasped and scrambled for his gun. It was too much, too inhuman, to be locked away in a coffin to await a death that was only temporary. It was maddening. Terrifying. He sat back on his knees and struggled to breathe in the darkness. When he had the breath, he laughed. It rang harshly within the narrow confines of the dilapidated room, but he was beyond caring. He had been trained to kill men and take secrets and enjoy a short life. Not to spread the truth. Not to reincarnate. Not to save lives. Not to save one very special life.

Spy had always known he would die early, but he hadn’t realized how vital it had been. To have the surety of death stripped away rendered everything else infinite and therefore worthless. There was be no escape—from that life or the hundreds that came after.

He cradled the gun in his lap and choked on a crushing, tearless grief. Years’ worth regret were condensed into a single moment and there was no where to run from it. No one to talk or kill or fuck it away. His body arched involuntarily and he sucked in desperate gulps of air. It was all such a grotesque farce. He had no real use. None of them did. No one would ever be free. No one would ever know—or care. And all the shit they had seen, that they still had yet to see, would be for nothing. He would be nothing. Merely a fleshy shell that a computer refused to relinquish.

Spy picked the pistol up and held it against his temple. Equipment as old and depilated as the one looming beside him couldn’t respawn forever and his gun had a full clip. He clenched his teeth and braced himself. The muzzle felt icy through his mask; made his skin tingle in anticipation. His hands were shaking. Jesus. Jesus, he’d just do it. Just end it. Spy scrambled to reclaim his selfish calm from the cliffs, but all he could imagine was Barry’s face when he had returned to the van.

Something tickled the tender flesh around Spy’s eye. Tears? He wiped it away with his wrist and was surprised to feel so much moisture. Not tears. Sweat. His gun trembled against his temple.

He was actually afraid.

“Oh God,” Spy croaked, “God, oh God oh God….”

Shot after shot after shot thundered within the confines of the old fortress.

-

The clip was empty.

Hours passed unmeasured. Spy spent most of them staring blankly at the butterfly knife in his hands.

Eventually his breaths slowed and exhaustion replaced sadness, and for that moment he lost the ability to feel anything. It felt strange. Liberating. He quietly absorbed the feeling, and eventually holstered his gun. The tingling across his skin had turned into steady pain, and the slightest movement made his stomach churn. But eventually the need for water outweighed both pain and nausea. There was no more room for thinking or hoping or hurting. Only making the hurt go away. He stood up mechanically, unprepared for the wave of dizziness. One would think it wouldn’t matter in utter darkness, but it nearly shoved Spy off his feet. He took several deep breaths and walked with his hand against the wall. Water dripped steadily somewhere to the right and every plip scraped the back of his throat like sandpaper.

A single drop hit his eyelid. Spy turned his up towards the ceiling and held his mouth open. Water dripped onto his tongue at an excruciating pace and tasted like dirt, rust, and something metallic and sweet. He waited patiently until there was enough to wet his mouth and swallowed. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to give him some satisfaction—and it was nice to taste something other than vomit. After the third swallow, his jaw began to ache with the strain. He removed one glove, reached for the dark space where the water fell, and was rewarded with a slender trail of rivulets a head above him. A small crack in the stone wall allowed moisture through and it sat just within his reach. Spy put his glove in his mouth and clawed mindlessly at the stone until more water dribbled onto his face. He took out his butterfly knife and pried pieces of the wall away until water droplets became a steady stream. After drinking to his heart’s content, he leaned back against the old respawn machine and shut his eyes. The urge to sleep was irresistible. He sighed heavily and searched for a place to rest. He didn’t want to think about how painful it would be to kill himself with his own balisong. Over and over and over again.

A loud crack thundered overhead. Spy jerked upright and nausea hit him like a fist to the gut. He doubled over helplessly, dry heaving as groans and rushing water filled the room. It was one of the most frightening things he had ever experienced: sick, weak, trapped in a dark room with the weight of a sea above him. He stumbled into the respawn machine just as a loud explosion reverberated through the metal and into his bones. Something hit the metal wall he stood against and made his ears ring. Water gushed inside, invisible but foul-smelling. The force of the flow made everything churn inside the respawn machine and Spy knew if he stayed inside, the current would pin him there. He clung to the respawn machine’s wall and slowly made his way out. The water tore at his knees, all the most terrifying for its invisibility, and nearly pulled him off his feet. He allowed himself to half-walk, half-slide to the opposite side of the room and waited for the water to rise. There had to be air somewhere. He had fallen. There had been so much space between the surface and the water below.

It was hard to swim in clothing. Surprisingly hard. Spy struggled against the drag of his suit and pushed his head out of the water. He scraped the crown of his head against the ceiling and realized he had only a few more seconds of air.

God help him. He couldn’t face respawning then. He just couldn’t.

Spy paddled along the thinning layer of air towards the breached wall and felt the current whirl around him. It was still very strong, but there was no choice. There never had been. He squeezed his eyes shut when toxic water droplets hit his eyelids and the water’s surface began to close over his face like the jaws of a shark. He pulled himself down and groped his way into the collapsed wall. It was vaguely tunnel shaped and made swimming against the flow extremely difficult. He dug his fingers blindly into alternating layers of wood and cement and steel, and slowly left the flooded room behind. It felt futile. His heart pounded in his chest and his lungs burned in answer. He was going to die swimming blind through underwater wreckage. He was going to die. He was going to wind up respawning.

The currently suddenly eased. Spy stretched out his hands felt nothing around him. Christchristchrist he needed air. He instinctively swam upwards and risked opening his eyes. There was a flash of light, of a moving surface, before the excruciating pain forced him to squeeze his eyelids shut. Something was wrong with the water. He swam anyway. His stomach threatened to turn itself inside out with the need to vomit, but he didn’t dare open his mouth. Shit. Had to move fast. And he didn’t dare think of how far away the surface had seemed or how heavy his limbs felt or how fuzzy his head was and oh God what if the polluted water made him blind? That would be…be….

AIR.

He inhaled so much, so quickly, so deeply, it felt like it nearly killed him. The momentum he had gathered swimming up rocketed him half out of the water, then plunged him beneath the surface again. He hadn’t expected that, and the taste of sweetness and rust filled his mouth. Spy surfaced a second time, coughing and choking, and groped for something to hang on to. There was nothing. He risked wiping his eyes and opening them, only to see faintly lit walls and a single support beam leaning drunkenly overhead. Instead of being cavernous, the hollow was cylindrical, narrow, and smooth. The hole he had fallen through was still visible, but it was a pinprick of light.

“Fuck,” he said, but it emerged as a broken gasp.

A wave of despair threatened to pull Spy beneath the water. It was all for nothing. He had come all that way for nothing. He exhaled shakily and tread water with less enthusiasm, and allowed his chin and mouth to sink beneath the surface. Although the equipment below had been much older, he doubted he was out of range of the respawn machine.

A small silhouette appeared above. “Wondered what all that splashing was. Enjoying your swim, mate?”

Spy hadn’t realized how frightened and alone he had felt until that moment. The echo of a human voice made his eyes sting, and he frantically swam towards the middle of the water. The distant light of the sun hurt his skin, but its presence seemed divine after so much darkness. “GET ME OUT OF ‘ERE!” His voice was high, screaming—like an animal’s.

“Don’t panic, you stupid spook, I’ve got you.” Sniper vanished from the small circle of light overhead and Spy’s heart withered in fear. It realistically took less than five minutes for Sniper to reappear, but it felt like so much longer. Paralyzing exhaustion crept up his arms and legs, and the prospect of getting out felt more impossible by the second. Spy swallowed back the need to vomit a second time and waited. “Here!” A raspy whistle and a splash yanked him out of his daze. “Grab on to that!”

Spy regarded the rope with despair. It had been cobbled together by several smaller ropes and actually brushed the water’s surface. So much for being a wily man of the bush. If Sniper thought he was capable of hauling himself up that, then Sniper was crazy. “I can’t,” he replied dully.

“Why the bloody hell not?”

“I just can’t.” Spy fought to keep his limbs moving. “I just…I’m so tired.”

After a moment of silence, Sniper shouted, “Fine, I’ll come down. Don’t you dare drown on me.”

That broke Spy’s resolve. The very word and all the images that came with it turned the tide. He shut his eyes as his willpower faded and the pain and weakness pulling on his limbs came to forefront. His clothes were heavy. The water was cold. The last of his strength slipped from his grasp. He gasped reflexively as he sank against his will. The failure of flesh. The ultimate betrayal.

Water rose over his head and swallowed him whole.

There was a muted explosion above him. He opened his eyes and caught the play of light and shadow across the water’s surface. It hurt too much to keep looking for long. The water grew colder and darker, and the pressure against his ears neared pain. He blinked rapidly to compensate. The pressure squeezed his lungs with increasing force. Still, he couldn’t look away. It could be the last time he saw sunlight.

He thought about Barry, then. Lean and long-limbed. His body moving through the sheets with muscular grace. Steady, calloused, loving hands. Gone. All gone. Forever. Spy couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He exhaled only to choke on cold, unclean water. Realization shook him out of his daze. It was over. He wasn’t going to survive. It had all been for nothing.

Spy reached towards surface one last time and hoped for the impossible.

The impossible emerged from the dimness above and grasped his hand.


	10. Chapter 10

Pain. Panic. Unimaginable pressure and—he couldn’t breathe.

Spy caught a blurry glimpse of sky before lips released his mouth and he choked on a terrifying mouthful of water. He was rolled onto his side, yelled at, and smacked. It felt far away. Nonsensical. Every breath was cold and heavy. The horizon swirled before his eyes. And he hurt. He hurt so much in so many places that noise and sensation ceased to matter. The world swirled in a terrifying kaleidoscope. Reality hung overhead, mutilated beyond recognition.

“He came back.”  
Whispers in the darkness.  
“Of course he did.”  
Ticklish and elusive.  
“After a decade?”  
Like birds flitting between the branches of a tree.  
“What other choice did he have?”  
Always fleeting….

A fist to the chest brought Spy back to reality. He arched off the sand and drew in a violent breath before flopping on his back. The sun scalded his exposed skin. “Jésus,” he croaked faintly,”je suis mort…je…suis…je dois être mort….”

A vaguely familiar silhouette blocked out the sun. “I can assure you, my friend, zat you are not dead.”

RED Spy.

RED Spy.

He reached for his revolver—or at least he tried to. His hand twitched and the sky went grey and indistinct as pain rolled over him. Did he scream? It was impossible to tell.

“Yes, zat is most unfortunate.” RED Spy lifted his hand and timed the pulse, surprisingly gentle, and Spy caught sight of his wrist before writhing in agony.

His skin was black.

“I never zought I would say zis,” RED Spy cocked his head, eyes cold, “but I must return you to ze base before you end up like ‘im.”

Spy followed the RED’s gaze and saw BLU Sniper sprawled on the ground, a dark stab wound over his right kidney. His eyes were glassy, but the bloodied sand around him was still wet. He was still breathing. Still alive. But flies buzzed around him like vultures. Spy wondered dreamily if it had been BLU Sniper or RED Spy who had called out to him.

His eyes flicked up to meet the Frenchman’s stare and he managed to croak, “Why?”

RED Spy’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Because now we are even. Fair is fair, non?”

It was such a pathetic reason that Spy didn’t know what he would have said had he the strength to reply. A larger silhouette suddenly overlapped RED Spy and smelled of sweat and ham and body odour. Large hands dug under the crook of his knees and his shoulder blades, and lifted him off the ground. He shrieked like a dying animal and tried to escape, but he was held even tighter than before. His flesh felt as thin as singed paper.

“Careful, ‘eavy.”

“Da. I know what to do.” There was a long pause. “I see before.”

It was the RED’s heavy. Spy shut his eyes when the large man turned and began to walk, and he had to endure the painful pendulum rhythm in his arms. Although he was still wet, still congested from near drowning, the sun felt like it was scorching the flesh from his bones. He wouldn’t survive the journey back. He didn’t want to. His entire body burned relentlessly. It only worsened when he was placed on something flat, hot, and soft. A car seat. The heat was more oppressive than before. A thin scream escaped his lips. Heavy held him close and murmured softly in Russian. Spy knew Russian, but couldn’t grasp any of it through the nauseating veil of pain and confusion. All he knew was that it sounded very sad.

He supposed it didn’t matter what Heavy said. When Spy was conscious, he listened.

_

Something wet and rough and cold slid over his eye. Then the other. Spy smelled disinfectant and rotten meat. The image of his own wrist, necrotic black, burned like a brand in his mind’s eye. Did he still have all his limbs? Had his skin fallen off? Was he really alive at all? He braved a peek of the outside world. The fluorescent lights overhead stabbed his retinas and he instinctively turned away, but a hand cradled his cheek and forced him to look ahead. He recognized that hand. That touch.

Barry.

“Morning,” Sniper said, face blank.

Spy tried to gauge the situation by his tone, but Sniper’s expression was unreadable. “‘ey,” he croaked faintly, his voice strange and scratchy. “What ‘appened?”

For a moment, Sniper didn’t reply. He kept wiping Spy’s face with a wet cloth, his Adam’s apple bobbing before he spoke. “Need a shave, mate.”

Despair hung thick in the air. “Oh.”

Sensing his mistake, Sniper discarded the cloth and poured water into a cup. “Sit up,” he commanded and when Spy hadn’t the strength to do so, he used his elbow as a prop. “C’mon.” He readjusted the pillow and helped Spy into a sitting position. “Drink this.”

Spy accepted it with unsteady hands and drank it all in one gulp. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until he smelled fresh water. “Merci,” he muttered, then stared at his hands. The left was soft and smooth, but the right was putrid and black. “What is dis?” He looked clawed at the sheets and lifted his shirt, and saw random black patches there, too. “What…?”

“Wanted to get it all off before you came to.” Sniper cleared his throat. “Sorry.” At Spy’s stunned expression, he ducked his head. “Doc says it was radiation exposure. Burned your whole body like a tan. Medigun took a while to work.”

“A tan?” Spy repeated mindlessly and looked past Sniper. The other bed was stained dark red and reeked of decay. It was a gruesome testament to suffering and he looked away, unnerved. “Why didn’t you let me die?”

Sniper grabbed a new cloth and continued to wipe Spy’s face. “If you died here, we’d have lost that new uniform and any clues in it. Lost you, too.” He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then gruffly muttered, “Couldn’t watch you cark it.”

“Oh goody.” Spy blushed and pushed the cloth away, only to be scrubbed even harder. “I am 37 years old, Barry, I can wash myself.”

Sniper’s mouth quirked at his name, but his expression remained grim. “Not anymore.”

“What?”

He hesitated, then retrieved a mirror laying on RED Medic’s desk. He handed it over with a grimace. “Think this proves your template theory, mate.”

Spy didn’t recognize himself. He looked younger. Much younger. At least ten years younger. His hair had thinned because of radiation sickness, but it no longer had traces of grey around his temples, and his face was reverted to the unlined cream-in-coffee complexion of his younger days. It occurred to him that Sniper had never seen him without his mask on. “Dis is…a little unexpected,” he said feebly.

“Yea,” Sniper mumbled, “you’re telling me.” He switched to Spy’s hand and peeled the dead skin away without emotion.

“Am I a prisoner ‘ere?”

Sniper grunted noncommittally.

“Right. Stupid question.”

A silent gulf yawned between them and Spy couldn’t stand it. “Where are my clothes, den? If you wanted to study dem, den dey are still ‘ere. I want dem.”

“What?” Sniper stiffened, but refused to look up. “Think Medic and Spy made off with them. Only got the mask here.”

“I want it.” He tore his hand away. “Right now.”

Sniper finally raised his eyes, which were dark with emotion, and walked across the room to Medic’s desk. He jerked open the drawer and retrieved the mask, then sat back down on Spy’s bedside with more force than necessary. It had been cleaned and still held the warmth and smell of finished laundry. He handed it over with white knuckles.

“Don’t,” was all he said.

“Why?” Spy asked petulantly. He received nothing more than unflinching silence and dipped his head self-consciously. He felt more naked then than he ever had in Sniper’s bed. The mask felt familiar in his grasp. An extension of his flesh.

Movement caught Spy’s eye. He looked up in time to see Sniper’s fingers hesitantly reach for his face and flinched away. “Mercy,” he said a little too loudly and slipped his balaclava on. The growing anxiety in his belly immediately vanished, only to be replaced with guilt.

Sniper didn’t reply. Instead, his arm flopped onto the mattress like a dead snake. He snatched Spy’s hand and continued to clean it. They sat that way for a half an hour, patches of sunlight drifting up the sheets that separated the beds from the rest of the room. Awkwardness wedged itself between them and made any idle conversation impossible. Spy shifted impatiently, torn between disgust and gratitude as Sniper coaxed strips of dead skin to peel away, and revealed healthy skin in its place. When Spy’s right hand was as clean as his left, Sniper got off the bed, lifted the blankets, and put both legs on his lap.

“It will fall off on its own,” Spy said and wiggled his toes. At Sniper’s scowl, he lifted his leg away. It took all of his strength to do so, but he felt like less of an invalid because of it. He was surprised when Sniper snatched his ankle and slammed his leg back down on the bed. “Ow, what de fuck?” He inhaled a large breath to fight off a wave of exhaustion. “What is wrong with you?”

“Ah, I see ze prisoner is awake.”

Sharp footsteps echoed from the opposite side of the room five heartbeats before RED Spy pushed the curtain aside. They froze. He smiled humourlessly at them, eyes flicking to the bloodied bed. “Did you chase Medic out before he could clean his own infirmary? Shame on you, Sniper.”

“Fuck off, mate,” Sniper said in a low, dangerous tone. “I’m warning you.”

RED Spy laughed and fished out a cigarette. “Relax, Convict, I did not bring your lover all zis way to kill ‘im.”

“Oui,” Spy muttered maliciously. “Who would protect your son den?”

A cold pause reverberated throughout the room.

“Spare me.” RED Spy exhaled smoke through his nostrils. “Some of us maintain our perspective when we hop into bed wiz ze enemy.”

“But not on de battlefield.” Spy managed to sit up, though is arms shook with the effort. “You wanted to know what’s going on and you killed de only other person who knew about it.”

“Easy, mate—”

“Non.” Spy pushed Sniper away and pointed at the Frenchman. “You are a stupid, worthless piece of shit! Dat man knew more dan I did. Fuck you. Fuck you.” He flopped back against the pillow, exhausted. “I’d rather walk across de desert until I died dan ‘ave to deal with dis shit all again.”

RED Spy smiled thinly. “So much passion from such a little man.” His eyes darted to Sniper and back to Spy with an air of anticipation. “You’d zink it would wear off after 41 years.”

Sniper froze. “Wot?”

“Ze BLU Spy knows,” the Frenchman quoted Demo. “You are ze one who is supposed to call zem and guide zis circus, but when you were…unavailable…zey turned to me.”

“Them?” Sniper’s face paled. “Oi! I’m talking to you. What do you mean, ‘them’?”

Spy closed his eyes. “De companies, I suppose?”

“Yes. Zey are one company now, actually.”

Sniper fixed RED Spy with a fierce look. “Why the fuck are you telling us this now?” He suddenly glanced at the empty doorway. “And where’s Medic? He swore he was going to bring Heavy to whip my arse.”

“I am telling you zis now,” RED Spy replied around his cigarette, “because you will not remember a single word of zis conversation.” He glanced at his watch. “Zey would ‘ave arrived twenty minutes ago, I imagine. Plenty of time to start sweeping through ze area.”

“What is wrong with you?” Sniper bolted to his feet. “We’re trapped!”

RED Spy shrugged. “C’est le vie.”

The lights cut out and the only source of illumination came from the muzzle flash of RED Spy’s revolver. Sniper let out a shocked gasp and landed awkwardly on the tip of the hospital bed, arms spread wide like Jesus on the crucifix as he slowly slid off the mattress and onto the floor. Blood glistened in a large smear across Spy’s blanket. He stared at it until the cold ring of RED Spy’s gun pressed against his temple.

“‘e was right, you know.” RED Spy bent down to be at eye level with the Quebecois and pulled something from his pocket.

Spy regarded him blankly. “What?”

Suddenly he faced BLU Soldier instead of RED Spy. It was so sudden and terrifying that Spy tried to squirm out of bed, but familiar hands grabbed his neck, his arm, anything within reach, and held him down on the mattress. He flailed wildly and felt Sniper’s blood stick to his skin, screaming nonsensically in French and English.

Both of Soldier’s hands wrapped around Spy’s neck and clamped down. “Quiet,” he ordered and enforced the order with a squeeze that made Spy’s pulse thunder behind his eyes. “All zis is your fault, you understand? Your fault. We would not be ‘ere if it wasn’t for you.” Spy tried to pry the hands off of his neck, to hit and claw every fibre of flesh within his reach, but nothing he did seemed to wound Soldier. “You are ze Devil.” Soldier’s face hovered over his, eyes flaring with madness. “You ‘ear me? You are ze Devil! Zis is all your fault!”

A final squeeze made Spy’s vision tunnel. The sound of bells returned, as loud as before.

“Zey wouldn’t have come for my son if you ‘ad done your job!” Soldier’s voice sounded grief-stricken and far away. “Why did you not just do your job?”

Spy’s mind screamed at the oncoming darkness.

I don’t know!


	11. Chapter 11

A sickening sense of impact. Pain. Exhaustion. Darkness. Then a startling rush as someone tore hood off of his face. He screwed his eyes shut against the inevitable pain, but nothing happened. No one hit him. Something metallic clicked to his left and the tantalizing smell of cigarette smoke filled the air. He opened his eyes to gaze at a man. Tall, well dressed with a nose too large to be attractive, and wrapped in an authoritative presence. His eyes were bright green and glittered like church glass.

“Good day, Mr. Morin.” The man’s voice was so familiar as to be surreal. “Do you remember who I am? No, I suppose not.” He chuckled and turned towards his desk, where a glass of scotch sat. They were alone in a dark, intimately lit office. “Call me Jack.” He chuffed at some unsaid joke. “It’s about as good as any other name, I suppose.”

Spy licked his lips and straightened in his chair, only to slump under a bout of dizziness. “What…?”

Jack smiled and dragged a chair towards Spy. A low glass table separated them and he set his scotch down on it, cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. “Easy, Mr. Morin. You’ve been unconscious for quite some time.”

RED Spy’s face—veiled by Soldier’s—cut across Spy’s mind, and he shivered in revulsion. “I assume you are one of de men responsible for de little war between RED and BLU?”

“Yes,” Jack said grandly, arms outstretched, “we are.”

Spy blinked slowly. “We?”

“You and I,” he clarified. “Partners in crime.”

Whatever strength pain and disorientation had spared Spy, shock took away. He leaned back in his chair and stared blankly at the wall. “You’re lying,” he said flatly, but couldn’t stop hearing RED Spy’s last words.

My job.

My fault.

“Not at all.” Jack paused when the door opened and an energetic young man entered with a pitcher of water and a glass. “Thank you, Ben.” He poured the water and offered it to Spy. “You look like you need something a bit softer than alcohol.”

Spy didn’t respond, but he was too thirsty to refuse the offering. “Where are de others?”

“Back at war.” Jack crossed his legs and fixed Spy with a shrewd glance. “The demoman has been replaced, but I’m happy to say that we found your sniper in time to save his life. He’ll be back in service soon enough.” He took a leisurely sip of scotch, eyes pensively surveying the room. “We pulled you because you present us with a problem, Mr. Morin.” When Spy said nothing, he smiled into his scotch. “You see, we sent you in there to act…like a referee. Make sure things run smoothly. Shut off the respawn machines when we need to access them. Make sure everybody is safe and in-character. Maintenance, really.”

“And I fucked up?” Spy looked into his glass.

Jack smiled ruefully. “You did.” He took a moment to formulate his next sentence. “But by doing so, you’ve provided us with unexpected benefits, which is why we haven’t killed you yet.” His lips quirked when Spy snorted rudely. “I must admit, when I first heard of your defection from us because of your lover, I thought it rather melodramatic. Now it seems rather sweet.” He tilted his head to the side. “Every time we have restarted the scenario, you’ve always gone back to RED Sniper. Did you know that? It’s quite remarkable. Such a shame we can’t publish these things. I’m sure psychologists would have a field day.”

Spy shut his eyes to ward off the emotions that elicited and swallowed thickly before speaking. “Why are you doing dis?”

“To you or to the others?” Jack smiled lightly. “We brought you here for examination. Your experiences with the respawn machines have been…unorthodox and we want to know why, and frankly your flirtations with suicide concern us. As for the whole thing, it’s very simple. Entertainment.” He drank more scotch, then added, “and money, of course.”

“Entertainment?”

“Yes, we have customers who prefer this sort of thing. You’re a celebrity among the world’s elite.” He laughed at Spy’s expression and finished his drink. “Were you expecting something else? Experimentation, perhaps?” He shook his head. “The Cold War is over, Mr. Morin. Has been for a long time. The RED and BLU corporations needed to find another way to survive. So, they merged and found a different way to thrive.”

“Den…none of it is real,” Spy mumbled, looking stricken. “It’s just a play.”

“Oh, I assure you it’s all real. We have merely set up parameters in a real life situation.” Jack’s eyes flicked up Spy’s body and the violent encounter with BLU Soldier hung in the air between them. “We neither encourage nor discourage behaviour. That would negate the point.”

“Is dis part of de show, den?”

“Oh, no!” Jack finished his cigarette. “This meeting is pure selfishness on my part. I’ve always liked speaking with you. The Acelin Morin—now a decade younger, no less!” He spread his hands out in a Gallic shrug. “What can I say? I have a weakness for the extraordinary.”

“Indeed.” Spy inhaled deeply to dam the hysteria building in his throat. “Shall I sign autographs for de men who come to torture me?”

“Good Lord, is that what you think?” Jack shook his head and smiled self-deprecatingly. “I apologize, Mr. Morin. I’ve held this conversation with you several times already. I forget that and make assumptions.” He regarded Spy with infuriating politeness. “The doctors will take a look at you next, make sure your recent escapades haven’t had any unforeseen consequences. It will also help us understand the long term affects of respawn.”

“Den what?”

“Then you’ll be sent back and it will start all over.”

Spy examined his glass speculatively. “And if I don’t like dat?”

“You could escape from this office, and try to adjust to the world of 2009. Well, 2010 in a few days. As you can see by the age difference, you’ve done that before.” Jack leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “Then we’ll hunt you, maybe find you. Maybe not. But you always come back.” He shrugged. “Either way, you’d never return to the BLU team. Or the RED sniper.”

“Of course you pull dat card. You piece of shit.”

Jack threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Morin. It’s not that I don’t take you seriously, but after speaking with your RED counterpart, I can’t imagine two men who are less alike.” He settled after a moment and drank in Spy’s bloodless complexion. “Come on, you look exhausted. After you finish your drink, I’ll let the doctors know you’re ready.”

“You say dat like I’m a guest.”

“Outside this room there are only inevitabilities, but I to think in here we can do and say what we like.” Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Mr. Morin, it may seem hard to believe, but I do sympathize with you. My father worked here before me, so I knew about you long before I inherited this place.” His gaze held a strange combination of possessiveness and affection. “Some children had Superman; I had BLU Spy.”

Spy rubbed his face, reassured his mask was on, and exhaled slowly. “So we are like comic book characters to everyone else?” He examined the expensive Waterford crystal cup in his hand. It should have been filled with scotch or whiskey, not water, to show off the intricate designs. He started to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all and felt as unhinged then as he did the night Soldier had snapped his neck. It hurt to laugh, but it hurt more not to.

He had helped maintain a farce until he had fallen in love. It was bad enough to be forever trapped onstage for paying customers, but to be cast in such a cliché role? That was just embarrassing.

Jack looked disconcerted, then discreetly pressed something in his right ear and murmured something that Spy couldn’t hear. He didn’t care. For the first time, he actually understood what was going on. All the flashbacks, all the nonsensical emotions, all the pain and suffering were just quirks that delighted the audience.  
Nothing they did or felt or were had ever mattered.

“Ready to go?” Jack asked, a little hesitant.

“Will I remember anything?”

“Oh, no.” Jack looked surprised. “Would you like to?”

“Non.” Spy traced the groves in his glass. “Will RED Spy?”

“Of course. He has to.”

Spy smiled darkly. “Ah.”

RED Spy would suffer, then. He would pay—having to stand guard over a play that never ended. It was enough to soften the despair cutting into his gut.

“Gentlemen,” he said.

“Ah, Mr. Morin, it is good to see you awake.” The first man leaned in and shook his hand. “I am Dr. Torres and this is my collegue Dr. Ortiz.”

“How do you do,” Ortiz said, and shook Spy’s hand after Torres.

Spy couldn’t suppress the painful smile that took shape on his face. It was just all so civil and hilarious. “A pleasure,” he managed, though his voice wavered with laughter. “I assume you’ve come to see me?”

“Yes.” Jack rose from his seat, eager to please. “Torres and Ortiz are our foremost experts in neurology and nanotechnology, respectively.” He caught Spy’s bewildered expression. “Nanotechnology involves very small robotics.”

“Ah.” Spy rose of his own accord, but Torres gently touched his elbow when he wobbled. “I ‘ave wasted enough of your time. Dank you for your ‘ospitality.”

“It’s always a privilege,” Jack replied.

Spy smiled and made his way to the door with very little help. When Ortiz opened the door for him, he glanced over his shoulder. Jack looked every bit of a boy who had just met his idol. A 30-year-old man child.

“One day,” Spy said quietly, “you’ll be on dat stage, too.”

Jack swallowed thickly and turned towards the decanter on his desk. Apparently he’d never heard that before.


	12. Chapter 12

SOVIET TANKS INVADE PRAGUE!

Soviet forces invaded Czechoslovakia late last night to crush the Prague Spring, a series of reforms led by First Secretary of the Communist party Alexander Dubcek. The airport has been seized, and outrage spreads….

BLU Spy sighed as he read the newspaper and took a meditative sip of coffee as the train’s engine gently rattled the tray. More drama overseas. He had suspected as much would happen. No one could simply walk out of the Soviet Union’s shadow. Such was the way of all power. He continued to skim the paper for any follow up articles until a polite cough drew his attention. He looked up to see BLU Sniper standing in the aisle, wearing an easy going smile. He leaned against the seat in the row ahead and jerked his chin at the newspaper.

“Mind if I look at the Sports? Ain’t anything worth reading in the back there.”

Spy regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “Oui.”

“Thanks.” Sniper sat beside him without invitation and immediately took the offered Sports section. “You French?”

“French Canadian,” Spy corrected.

Sniper offered his hand. “I’m—”

“—from Queensland.” Spy smiled thinly and shook it. “I know.”

“Jesus. You’re in the right job, aren’t you?” Sniper laughed softly, eyes flicking down to the headlines. “Tanks rolled in already?”

“We warned dem,” Spy replied nonchalantly and leaned back in his seat. He glanced out the window, but the desert landscape looked the same then as it had two hours ago.

“Bit weird.” BLU Sniper folded the paper in half and pretended to read. “Being the only two blokes on here, I mean.”

“Dis is a supply train. We are simply military supplies, oui?” Spy smiled sardonically and crossed his legs, mindful of the heat from the other man’s thigh. The sniper’s incredulous expression was endearing. “Welcome to de war, monsieur,” he said flippantly.

“That’s shit.”

Spy laughed outright. “Oui.” He finished his coffee and continued to flip through the news. Every sort of catastrophe was stripped and dissected for public consumption—some things he had been involved in, others he had not. “Sigon is in trouble,” he muttered to himself, although BLU Sniper leaned in close to hear him.

“Your work?” He asked.

“Non. Dank Christ.” Spy shook his head. “Dat place is such a mess.”

“Whole world’s a mess,” Sniper replied. “Almost makes you want to find a bunker and never come out, don’t it?”

Darkness swallowed their compartment as the train swept into a tunnel. “Almost,” Spy agreed.

-

The train pulled into the station with a smooth sigh close to dusk. Spy glanced out the window, but no one was on the platform to greet them. He discarded his newspaper and stood up, stretching. Not so unexpected in a front line establishment, but annoying nonetheless. He gathered up his things as BLU Sniper dashed to the back for his own, and headed off the train. The desert air was inhospitably hot—much hotter than what Spy had grown accustomed to. Truth be told, anything above 40 Celsius made it nearly impossible for him to function. He lit a cigarette and prepared himself for the walk outside.

“Aw, you did wait for me.” BLU Sniper clapped Spy on the back. “Thanks, mate. Where to?”

“Of course,” he lied,” and I ‘ave absolutely no idea.” He turned just as a silhouette filled the doorway. “But he does.”

“Welcome to front lines, maggots.” The man who approached them wore blue combat gear and radiated ill-temper. “Start unloading that train and haul ass to base.” Every word was emphasized by a violent gesture, which made his helmet bobble on his head. “And do it now, maggots, before I decide to show the world what your guts look like.”

Spy curled his lip. “Non.” He took out a long drag on his cigarette. “I’m not fit for manual labour.”

“Mate,” Sniper murmured, “don’t fool around with this bloke.”

“You’re no fun.” Spy watched Soldier draw himself up to his full height. “What is de rush, my friend? I don’t ‘ear any gunfire.”

“That’s because they’re all dead.” Soldier invaded Spy’s personal space, his eyes glinting beneath his helmet.

Sniper frowned. “So, the war’s over?”

Soldier’s laughter echoed harshly in the station. “It’s just beginning, son. Those RED sons of bitches will be back again tomorrow.” He bared his teeth in what passed for a smile. “Like something right out of the bible.”

Spy caught Sniper’s bewildered look. “Respawn technology,” he explained. “You get shot, die, den come back in 30 seconds.” He met Soldier’s stare, but didn’t shy away from the darkness there. “As fascinating as dis is, I’m still not carrying your shit.”

After a tense stand off, Soldier snorted and turned away. “Useless pool of vomit,” he muttered, then abruptly stopped and swung around. Spy saw the shift in the man’s posture and instinctively ducked out of harm’s way. The entrenching shovel flashed silver in the fading light before it skimmed across Sniper’s midsection. His skin tore like wet cloth and intestines tumbled onto his boots like still-born eels; glistening pink on the concrete floor. He stared, too shocked to say anything; his face turning grey, and hands shaking. A faint gasp escaped his lips before he fell to his knees, eyes riveted on his internal organs.

“Jesus Christ,” Spy snapped and retreated beyond reach. “What de fuck is wrong with you?”

Soldier laughed, helmet straps swaying with the movement. “You slimy French coward! A real man takes what he gets and thanks God he has the balls to do so.” He walked past Sniper without a glance, hauled open the train’s side door, and hefted out a large crate. “Congratulations, scumbag. You’ve just let your first teammate down.” He walked out of the building, shoulders squared to carry his burden, with an air of grim amusement.

It wasn’t the first time Spy had seen a man clutching his intestines in his hands, but it was a striking image nonetheless. He took a long drag on his cigarette and bent down to inspect the damage. “Didn’t strike an artery,” he observed irritably, “which means you’re doing to take days to die.”

“Oh.” Sniper collapsed into a sitting position. “Think I can walk. I can. Just…help me up. Must have a doctor somewhere.” He tried to stuff his intestines back into abdominal cavity with trembling hands. “Help me with this, would you?”

Spy sighed and swept his cigarette to the right side of his mouth. “Dis is my best suit,” he muttered, but gathered up the warm, pulsing coils and laid them haphazardly into Sniper’s arms. “Dere.” He shook his hands in revulsion and stood up. “What a prick, eh?”

“Yea…got some water?”

“Oui. Give me a moment.” Spy stepped around Sniper and placed his foot onto the train’s stair as if he was going to board. “I saw some in de back,” he said to cover up the sound of him taking out his revolver and cocking it. “Will you be alright?”

Sniper bowed his head. “Yea,” he replied faintly.

Spy quietly stepped back onto the platform. “Good.” He aimed for the middle of the head and lightly squeezed the trigger…

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

…And released it.

“What the hell is going on?”

A short man wearing bright blue overalls hurried hurried through the doorway, the tools on his belt jingling in the silence. Although goggles obscured his eyes, Spy knew the man was staring his revolver. He flicked its hammer, holstered it calmly, and flicked his cigarette away.

“Bonjour.” He gave a lazy, two-fingered salute. “A crazy man decided to disembowel our colleague ‘ere.”

“Solly did this?” The short man frowned and hefted the gun he carried at a higher angle. “And you were going to finish the job.”

Sniper glanced over his shoulder, face a matching colour of the concrete. “What?”

“Don’t worry yourself.” Spy made an airy wave. “I assume you ‘ave a doctor ‘ere?”

“Medic’s on his way.” The short man shifted his weight equally on his feet, ready to fight. “Best you be on yours.”

Spy shrugged, glad to be rid of the business. “Gentlemen,” he said, inclined his head, and strode towards the door.

“Oi…where you going…?” Sniper’s voice sounded mildly bewildered. The man was in the throes of shock and probably wouldn’t remember anything, so Spy glanced at him over his shoulder and smiled.

“I ‘ave to avenge you, oui?” He nearly laughed at Sniper’s solemn nod and walked out of the building before he ruined the moment.

The air was even hotter outside than in the station and Spy nearly regretted lighting a cigarette. He glanced heavenward and examined the darkening sky. Not a single cloud. He sighed irritably and walked towards the industrial looking building sporting the typical BLU decor. The RED base sat opposite of it across the river, which had only one bridge, and was more rustic in comparison. The set-up was, quite frankly, a nightmare.

“Folie,” he muttered under his breath.

The moment he stepped inside the BLU base, Spy sensed tension in the air. Everything was stark, institutional, and quiet, and he distrusted that impression immediately. The air inside smelled recycled. He walked quietly down the first hall, which branched into two smaller corridors. A large blue and white sign advertised INTELLIGENCE to his right. The other was unmarked. He chose the latter and made his way deeper into the base, ears straining for any sounds.

He hadn’t expected it to be so hostile, but nothing about the place seemed conventional.

“Get off—hey, get the fuck off me!”

Spy stopped and tried to pinpoint the voice’s location. A faint smack of flesh against floor echoed around the corner. He pursed his lips and unholstered his revolver, slipping quietly down the hall until he hovered on the brink between one turn and another.

“Shush, ma puce. I just want to ‘ave a little chat.”

“Get off me, faggot!” A futile clap of flesh against the floor. “Let me go!”

“Not until you behave yourself.”

“Ma puce?” Spy simply slipped around the corner, cocking the hammer back, and quickly absorbed the scene. RED Spy had wrenched Scout’s arm behind his back and pinned him to the floor with his right knee. “Bit old for dat, isn’t ‘e?”

The two froze, as if caught in a lewd act. Scout looked torn between humiliation and anger, while the enemy spy regarded him with an intensity that defied understanding. “I was wondering when you’d come,” he said cryptically.

Spy smiled and raised his revolver. “Well, ‘ere I am.” He pulled the trigger and felt the satisfying kick reverberate up his arm. Blood and brain matter exploded in every direction, and showered the hallway in a warm, gentle rain. RED Spy’s corpse flopped on top of Scout like a dead fish, lower jaw hanging tenuously from his ruined skull. It undid the boy then and there, and he scrabbled out from underneath the corpse to vomit against the wall.

“You’re wearing more red dan ‘e is,” Spy observed, and wiped minuscule specks of blood off of his suit.

The scout merely threw up again.

“Your first time?” Spy asked innocently, slipping his revolver back into its holster. He stiffened when the RED Spy’s corpse vanished, blood spatter the only testament that someone had just died. “So…it’s true.” He tossed his cigarette into the congealing blood. “Life after death.”

“Shut up.”

“Hmm?” Spy lit another cigarette and bent down to the other’s eye level. “What is dat, boy?”

Scout leaned his forehead against the wall, ashen-faced and sweating, a string of snot running down his face. “I said shut up, you fucking psycho.”

“I ‘eard you. Must be quite a shock, caught in your own base….” Spy took a long drag on his cigarette and breathed it into Scout’s face. “To ‘ave your papa killed in front of your eyes.”

“He’s not my dad!” Scout snarled at him like a wounded badger. “So shut the fuck up about it!” He abruptly stood up and wobbled away, hat askew on his head, shoes covered in blood. There was something very vulnerable about the curve of his spine that inspired Spy to speak.

“Wait,” he stood up, “dat was not fair. I apologize.”

When Scout leaned against the wall to support himself, Spy took the opportunity to catch up. He glanced down the hall, but no signs denoted an obvious way to the Medic—if he had even returned from the drama outside. Scout shoved himself away from the wall and continued on his own power without a word or glance. His hands trembled with the effort.

Spy followed him at an easy pace. “I said I was sorry.”

“Fuck,” Scout panted, “off.”

“Is dat any way to dank de man who saved your life?” Spy suppressed an irritated frown when there was no answer. He had never been good with children. “No matter, I suppose. We should get you something to drink, eh?”

“Whatever.”

They continued in silence, but Spy could tell by the way Scout walked that shock was winning out over willpower. Air conditioners sighed overhead and made it sound as if they were in the bowels of an airplane. Despite the sterile white and blue colour scheme of the building, the tell-tale signs of battle were evident. Bullet holes, burn marks, and old blood marred the once white walls.

Spy paused, frowning. “De REDs managed to get dis far into de base?”

“No.” Scout sluggishly turned into a small corridor. The kitchen was at then end, marked only by a doorless frame. When Spy entered the room, he was taken aback by the disgusting smell of rotten food, dust, and burnt plastic.

“Christ, dis is where you eat?” Spy surveyed the dirty room with revulsion. A single window on the eastern side provided a view of the desert horizon. He rummaged through the cupboards as Scout collapsed in a chair, head held between his hands. There was no pop, so he had to settle with offering a glass of water. “No wonder you’re ill,” he muttered and set a mostly clean cup in front of Scout. “Dis place is a shit ‘ole.”

Scout downed the water in three gulps and gestured for more.

“You’re welcome,” the Quebecois snorted as he turned and refilled the glass from the tap. He sat on the opposite side of the table and placed the glass between them. Scout drank it more slowly and seemed to steady himself.

After an awkward silence, he met Spy’s stare. “You got a funny accent. Different from that other guy’s.”

Spy suspected he would be having this conversation several times. “Oui,” he sighed, “I am Quebecois.” At Scout’s blank face, he elaborated. “French Canadian.”

“Fag,” Scout replied without venom.

“Oh, merci.” Spy squashed his cigarette onto the table and leaned back in his chair to examine his teammate. “Do you know what ma puce means?”

“Some faggy French insult.”

“It means my flea. My pet. It’s an endearment a parent might give to a child.” He watched Scout’s face lose what colour it had regained. “Given de circumstances of your mother’s—”

“He’s not my dad, man. So shut the fuck up about it.” Scout slammed his fist on the table. “You got that, scumbag?”

“Quiet. I’m not ‘ere to mock you, boy.” Spy flicked his wrist and his butterfly knife slid smoothly into his palm. “If we ‘ave dis intelligence, den de REDs will certainly ‘ave it, too. Men in our profession use such dings like bullets and knives.” He flicked his wrist again and the balisong’s naked blade emerged with a silver flicker. “‘e may or may not be your father, but ‘e will try to use dat against you.” He leaned forward, held the knife up between them. “Next time he pulls dat shit, make ‘im sorry ‘e was ever born.”

Scout looked disconcerted. “Okay,” he said cautiously, “whatever.”

Spy’s smile couldn’t reach his eyes. “Good boy.” He stood up and slipped the knife back up his sleeve. “Now I must attend to our disgruntled comrades.”

“The fuck did you do?”

“I pissed your little tin soldier off.” Spy’s smile widened at Scout’s panicked expression. “‘e attacked me but ended up cutting open de sniper’s guts right on de train platform instead. Hilarious!”

“Solly will fucking kill you, man. He’s crazy.” Scout suddenly stood up and backed away. “I ain’t getting involved in this shit.” He stumbled out the door, footsteps light and rapid down the hall. “Watch your ass, faggot.”

“Indeed.” Spy took a pensive drag on his cigarette as Scout vanished around the corner.


	13. Chapter 13

Dinner was a decidedly awkward affair.

After sussing out the base’s layout, sneaking his luggage off the train, and preparing his equipment, Spy sauntered into the kitchen with a smile on his face. The conversation had been sparse before, but it slipped into icy silence when he appeared. Soldier’s eyes scraped up and down his body like a wire brush, seeking weakness. Scout kept his head down, body tensed in anticipation. The rest regarded him with varying levels of interest. A pack waiting for the decision of its alpha.

“Where is Sniper?” He asked casually, bypassing the table completely and inspecting the stew sitting on the stove. His eyes flicked to meet Soldier’s. “You didn’t disembowel ‘im again, did you? Such terrible manners.” He plucked a particularly juicy piece of beef out of the pot and ate it with obvious satisfaction. “We’re supposed to be getting along, oui?”

Engineer sat back in his chair and frowned disapprovingly. “Stop stirring up trouble,” he muttered darkly, “we have enough of that already.”

“Apologies, Labourer.” Spy winked at him, which caused the Texan to colour and look away. “It’s my nature.”

“I bet,” Soldier snorted, a funny smile crossing his lips. He impaled a potato on his fork and popped it in his mouth, eyes glinting with something close to sanity.

“I must do a physical before you enter battle,” Medic said when no one else broke the silence afterward. Soldier shot him a look, which the German ignored. “Do not forget.”

“You ‘ave my word.” Spy snatched a plate from the cupboard and filled it with what passed for stew and vegetables. “And now I must part ways with you fine gentlemen.” He gave a mocking smile to the lot of them before slipping out of the kitchen door. The tension in the air followed him down the hall and around the corner. He had succeeded in disrupting the balance of power in the group, if only for a moment.

That was good enough.

The room assigned to Sniper was empty, which wasn’t surprising. Spy doubled back down the bullet-riddled hallways and found the a ladder to a half-level. He had to carefully balance the plate in his left hand while he climbed the ladder, then leaned against the rungs when he had to open the hatch. By the time he had stuck his head into the room, he felt like the world’s most tenacious waiter.

Sniper sat in the corner, covered in shadows. The brim of his slouch hat jutted out of the darkness as he tilted his head in Spy’s direction, and that was the only acknowledgement the Quebecois received.

“I brought you some food,” Spy panted as he put the plate on the floor and hauled himself through the door. “Dat soldier man is a complete asshole.”

No response.

He stood up and brushed off his pants. “Well, don’t you want to eat? It is getting cold.” A quick glance at Sniper showed no visible signs of understanding. “Did Soldier come back?”

“I died.”

Spy cocked his head. “You nearly died.”

“I died,” Sniper insisted, “and there was nothing.” He shook his head, hat cutting in and out of the light. “No tunnel, no fire and brimstone. Nothing.”

“Dat’s all dere ever really was.”

“You really believe that?”

Spy smiled mirthlessly. “Of course.” He jerked his head towards the large window. “Man created God for situations just like dis.”

Sniper leaned forward and light slanted across his gaunt features. “Why the fuck would you say that?” He buried his face in his palms. “What’s wrong with you? Doesn’t it—doesn’t all of this scare you?”

“I’m a man who trades on deception,” Spy replied calmly, “and so I know de truth when I see it, too.” He smiled wryly and pointed to his temple. “Dere is nothing transcendental ‘ere.” He pointed to the sky. “Or up dere.” He rested his palm over his heart. “Or ‘ere.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Spy laughed softly, surprised by the satisfaction rising in his throat. “It’s de truth.”

When there was no reply, he stood up and cautiously made his way back to the ladder. “You might as well eat,” he said, and closed the hatch door. Sniper’s unmoving profile disappeared from view and Spy was left to the silent hallways. He briefly considered returning to the kitchen and eating his own share, but he didn’t feel like tangling with his colleagues again so soon.

The base felt quiet and on edge, and made any sort of relaxation impossible. Spy navigated the corridors as best he could, noting the holes and blood and scorch marks, and formed a rough map of the base in his mind. It seemed the area around the intelligence room had seen more battles than the outside perimeter. The thought provoked memories of the RED spy and his strange aura of despair, but the man didn’t seem the sort to linger over botched missions, and Spy dismissed his counterpart for the moment. It was his own team who presented the foremost problem. The soldier had them all fit to snap.

He found the front entrance open and empty. Not even a sentry was posted to ensure the REDs didn’t try anything after hours. He sighed in disgust and lit another cigarette. The space beyond the door was dark, still, and cold, except for the wind, which only emphasized the emptiness between the bases. Spy glanced behind him to ensure none of his team mates were there, then activated his cloak and strode outside.

A chorus of coyotes echoed in the distance and he knew from experience that they were much farther away then they sounded. Keenly aware of the cloak’s time limit, he slipped across the open ground in front of the BLU fortress.

A quiet splash made Spy stop and glance at the far end of the compound. Right where the river entered beneath the fence, a man stood washing his chest. He wore a strange hat, but his silhouette was tall and well-muscled. He paused, torn between annoyance and curiosity, then sauntered along the edge of BLU’s territory to watch. The man was tanned and taller than average. He abruptly tossed his head to the side and scratched his scalp tiredly, hat askew. Scars crisscrossed his spine in silver ribbons that emphasized the play of muscles across his back.

“Can I help you, mate?” It was the same accent as BLU Sniper’s, but deeper, experienced, and very dangerous.

“You already ‘ave.” Spy decloaked in a smoky swirl that smelled of gunpowder. He approached the bank and leaned against the fence to conceal his surprise. “‘ow did you know I was ‘ere?”

“Your breathing. And you smell of cancer sticks.”

“Oh.” Spy felt foolish. “What are you doing?”

“Washing. The fuck does it look like?” The man turned and glared at him with cold blue eyes. He was grubby and unshaven, but handsome because of it. “You’re a BLU,” he growled and took a step towards Spy. “You going to give me trouble?”

“Non. I’m bored and you’re lovely to look at.” Spy lit another cigarette and exhaled casually. “What do you do?”

“I’m the RED sniper, you mongrel, now kindly piss off.”

“I can’t, I’m avoiding someone on my team.”

Sniper’s lip curled into a snarl, and dripping wet he looked more wild then than before. “I don’t care. Fuck off.”

Spy cocked his head and held his cigarette up between his index and middle fingers. “You know, a normal man would ‘ave proclaimed his orientation by now. Dat or tried to assault me.”

The sniper ignored him.

“Is dat why you are out ‘ere showering in dis filthy water rather dan in de base with other men?” Spy saw the RED sniper hesitate ever so slightly before he wallowed out of the water and used his shirt to dry himself. “Did dey drow you out or did you leave before one of dem called you a faggot to your face?”

Sniper charged across the river like a crocodile and pressed Spy against the fence. For a moment they merely stared at each other, and he had the impression he was being judged.

“So,” he pressed on, “who found you out?”

The Australian blinked rapidly. His mouth thinned, but his face betrayed no other emotion. “Our spy,” he replied after a moment.

Spy smiled coldly. “A strange man.”

Sniper hesitated, then nodded. “Yea.”

A rare thrum of interest rose in Spy’s belly and he didn’t resist the pressure the fence’s metal links put on his back. He put his hands over Sniper’s white-knuckled fists and squeezed gently.

“Ah, so that’s it.” The Australian’s breath was hot against his face. “You come in all friendly trying to trade sex for secrets? Woman’s tactic, that.”

Spy’s interest soured. He clamped his hands around Sniper’s wrists and used his back muscles to break the other man’s hold. Surprised, Sniper teetered forward. The fence jingled as their combined weight sank against it and Sniper’s hands came up to brace for the impact. Their groins met and there was a sudden, unavoidable awareness of their proximity.

“You smell familiar,” the Australian muttered after three heartbeats of awkward silence.

“De last man you fucked must ‘ave ‘ad exquisite taste in cologne, den.” Spy tilted his head. “Will you stop wrinkling my suit, please?”

“Fucking oath.” Sniper frowned, mirroring the wariness Spy felt, and brought their faces into alignment. “You’re a BLU. And a spy.”

“Oui.”

“And you’re barely older than our scout.”

That gave Spy pause, but not for long. He had always viewed himself as an older man. “Oui.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“Oui.”

They regarded each other for a moment.

“Finished?” Spy took a long drag on his smoke and flicked it away.

Sniper’s upper lip twitched into a snarl. “Bloody spook.” He wrapped his arms around Spy’s head and neck like a vice, and mashed their lips together. It was meant to be an insult, something ugly and unexpected, but the fence jingled as they stumbled back against it. Sniper’s tongue flitted inside his mouth—a sudden tang of coffee and cigarettes—and, God help him, he grabbed that damp, dirty collar in a death grip and returned the kiss. A zinging pleasure raced through his abdomen and down to his cock, and an experimental nudge against Sniper’s crotch told him the sentiment was returned.

Sniper violently broke the kiss and took two steps backwards, hand already touching his lips as if he had just popped a blister. “What the fuck sort of game are you playing, mate?” His voice rasped harshly in the silence that followed. “Is this some new trick?”

For the first time in his life, Spy was speechless. He shook his head and stared at a point of space between them.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Spy finally wrenched his gaze upwards. “De man you will ‘ate tomorrow,” he replied snidely. It was a futile lie, a single rain drop on a volcano, and his throbbing cock railed against it, but the denial had to be made. If Sniper had decided to snap his neck then and there, Spy honestly didn’t know if he could have defended himself. It was an appalling realization, one he saw mirrored in Sniper’s face.

“Yea…well.” The Australian cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped back. “Next time I catch sight of you, spook, I’ll kill you.”

“Dat is de point, Convict.” Spy slipped back towards BLU base. “You won’t catch sight of me.”

He laughed and cloaked for effect, but Sniper didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink.

Spy fled that look and all it entailed.


	14. Chapter 14

Spy leaped into the open before Heavy and Medic. Before Scout. Before Soldier. Before them all. He rushed out of the base; felt the dangerous open space around him, the scalding sun on his face, the jab of rocks through his expensive shoes. He felt it all in one sublime moment and honestly didn’t care if it got him killed. The voices of his team faded into an unimportant white noise pierced only by the whoosh of rockets and an explosion that nearly knocked him off his feet. He inhaled the smell of cooked flesh, smiled at its familiarity, and activated his cloak. More explosions followed and the bridge gave a thrilling shudder beneath his feet.

RED Heavy laughed maniacally and unleashed a spray of bullets on the BLU’s side of the bridge like a living turret. Spy was close enough to avoid being shot and skirted around the Russian man only to see RED Medic tucked in securely behind him. Ah, so that was how they did it. The sharp crack of a sniper rifle echoed between the fortresses and Soldier gurgled a last oath of vengeance before crumpling into a heap. Spy glanced over his shoulder and saw that the way was open into BLU base. Their own heavy was no where to be found.

And so it fell to Spy.

He turned around slowly and flicked open his butterfly knife. The pair of REDs crossed the bridge with such arrogance that Spy found it impossible to wait until they reached the other side. He snatched the enemy medic in a half-nelson, waited for the reflexive inhalation that would push the liver down below the protection of the ribcage, and drove his balisong into the man’s flank at an upward angle. Blood gushed onto his arm and he dropped RED Medic onto the ground a moment too late to save his suit. The coppery smell of blood stuck to the back of his throat like a paste and even the gunpowder smell of decloaking didn’t cancel it out.

RED Heavy heard his comrade’s sharp inhalation and glanced over his shoulder. “Alright, Doctor?”

“It saddens my ‘eart to ‘ave to break the news,” Spy unholstered his revolver and cocked it in one smooth motion, “but ‘e took de ‘epatectomy quite poorly.” He squeezed the trigger without blinking and the heavy’s head bloomed like a large flower. Blood and brain matter speckled Spy’s face and he cloaked, grimacing. A perverse impulse goaded him to lick his lips to see what a man’s brain tasted like.

So he did.

It was mildly fishy and had the consistency of a soft-boiled egg.

The plucky steps of the enemy pyro ripped Spy from his thoughts. He watched the masked man (if the term was even applicable) emerge from RED base and head directly towards the bridge. Perhaps it was the angle of Pyro’s head or the excitement in his gait, but Spy felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck in warning. That wasn’t an adversary to be trifled with.

The bridge was narrow, too narrow for Spy to pass the RED pyro by without significant risk to himself. With Soldier and the RED heavy and medic in respawn, the battlefield had become eerily silent. Tinny gunfire echoed in the distance, but nothing significant enough to provide a worthwhile distraction. Stealth was needed and it was damned hard to walk quietly on an old, battered bridge within two feet of the enemy. Spy gritted his teeth and wished for the first time that he was back in the hellishly humid jungles of Vietnam. He had felt like a tiger there, able to creep noiselessly through the thick vegetation and slit the throats of his enemies without letting them utter a single noise.

“Hurr?” RED Pyro caught sight of his team mates’ corpses just as they disappeared for respawn. He drew himself to his full height like an angry bear. “Sprr,” he growled in a low, muffled tone, and raised his flamethrower.

The crack of a sniper rifle echoed sharply between the bases. RED Pyro exploded so violently it was nearly cartoonish. Spy flinched backwards when hot gore splashed across his front like spaghetti bolognaise. He caught the pale flash of spine that was jettisoned up into the air before something smacked him across the face. It flopped off his nose and hit the wood at his feet. The smell of blood and ruptured innards, of copper, bile, and raw shit, made him grimace and nearly broke the seal between his lips.

It was a lung. Well, the remnants of one. It glistened pinkly under the sun like a beached jellyfish while blood poured between the wooden planks into the river below.

Spy exhaled angrily and reactivated his cloak. The blue merino suit he wore was already ruined, so he wiped his mouth on a clean spot of his sleeve and crossed the bridge. It was an odd feeling to creep into enemy territory in broad daylight. He had extensively tested the cloak that BLU had given to him, but it still felt too good to be true. Only a thin illusion separated him from death. It was enough to make the back of his neck tingle in anticipation of a bullet. It wasn’t a completely unpleasant feeling.

The RED base had two entrances; neither of which had doors. Spy narrowed his eyes and pushed his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue. He glanced at his watch and saw the cloak’s power steadily declining. A deafening crack made him jump and gape overhead. The faint tinkle of a spent bullet casing was followed by a soft chi-chick. Spy could imagine the RED Sniper loading another round into his gun. It wasn’t completely unpleasant, either.

He had a new goal.

The inside of RED fort was vastly different than BLU. It was musty and dilapidated. Hardly fit for civilian habitation, never mind military. Spy shook his head and ran as fast as he dared down the hallways. He made a blind turn to his right and came face to face with a level 2 sentry. It swung quietly on its turret to point straight at him. It was, quite frankly, one of the most terrifying moments of his life. The machine bore not one but two miniguns that glinted in the dim light.

The world stopped.

He didn’t breathe.

Then the sentry beeped and swivelled away.

He slipped past with his jaw clenched and headed down the hallway. The sounds of battle had all but retreated and left him in a silence broken only by the sentry’s unnerving beeps. There was no suitable place to conceal himself, so he flattened himself against the wall and dropped his cloak. Blue smoke erupted around him and the smell of gunpowder tickled his nose. It couldn’t have taken his cloak more than a minute to recharge, but it felt like a century. He wiped sweat out of his eyes and listened to the sentry’s gears whir and each telltale beep.

Spy spat out his spent cigarette and lit a new one. Industrial sabotage wasn’t his strong suit and the thought of incapacitating that monstrosity caused a new chill to sweep across his skin. He’d rather slit 100 throats in his best suit than deal with it.

“Fuck,” he muttered and cloaked.

The electro-sapper he carried weighed approximately seven pounds. Easy at first, but its weight grew more pronounced over time. Spy retrieved it out of his coat’s inside pocket designed for that very purpose and regarded it with distaste. It looked like something out of a movie. He inhaled a steeling breath and doubled back towards the sentry. From behind it didn’t look quite as intimidating, but the ominous whirl and click of its turret quashed any sense of complacency. And that goddamn beeping.

An explosion sent a tremor through the ground. Spy hesitated for four seconds, heart racing, before attaching the electro-sapper and flicking the switch. Immediately there was a power short and the sentry gave a loud snap before its gears ground to a halt. Those massive minigun barrels pointed to the far right for a moment longer, then tilted harmlessly towards the ground. The stench of burnt plastic clogged the hallway and Spy disengaged the sapper with all the precursors of a headache.

A scream of rage echoed down the hall Spy had come from. He turned to see a short man in red overalls barrelling towards him with an expression of wild grief. “You goddman Spah! I know it was you!”

Spy unholstered his revolver and aimed.

“You killed her! You killed her you killed her you killed you killedheryoukilledheryoukilledher….”

The gunshot sounded so loud and sudden, but it was gratifyingly familiar. Spy smiled as the RED engineer clutched his chest, blood running between his fingers in rich, frothy spurts, and pitched forward onto the ground. His breathing sounded hoarse and increasingly urgent, but he wouldn’t stop muttering that accusation over and over again.

“Quite troublesome toys.” Spy decloaked and walked over to RED Engineer. He couldn’t help smirking as he bent down over the other man’s prone form. Pleasure washed over him. That moment—that power over another human being—was the biggest thrill of all. He grabbed the goggle strap at RED Engineer’s temple and lifted his head so they were eye-to-eye.

Spy said nothing. He didn’t have to. The Texan opened his mouth to speak, but pink spittle escaped from the side of his lip instead. He uttered a weak choking sound, face suffused with rage. Spy let the engineer’s head drop to the ground and tore the goggles off of his head. He had blue eyes that were glazing over with the confusion of a dying man.

With a handsome smile, Spy took one last drag from his cigarette and pressed the remnants against RED Engineer’s right eye. There was a sizzling sound. He screamed piteously and struggled to fend off the attack, but it was too late. The smell of singed flesh mixed with burnt plastic. Spy stood up and laughed in delight. It was only then that he caught sight of Soldier standing at the opposite end of the hall.

“Don’t you ‘ave a job to do?” Spy lit another cigarette and stood possessively over RED Engineer, who had curled into a fetal position.

Soldier’s nostrils flared like an angry stallion’s. “You skipped the respawn scan-in, Frenchie. Don’t forget it.”

RED Engineer gasped, something that could’ve been laughter or pain, and curled in on himself. Spy gazed down at the RED for a moment, then walked towards the stairs.

He glanced at Soldier with feigned indifference, one hand casually spread against the wall. “Take of dat one,” he said, pointing to the engineer, “and I will kill de sniper.”

“Negatory.”

Spy paused mid-turn and regarded Soldier for a long moment. “No?”

Soldier clomped towards him and swung his rocket launcher under his arm to pull out a shotgun. He set his main weapon to rest against the wall and stood over RED Engineer, helmet tilted downwards. The enemy engineer grabbed his ankle and gurgled pathetically. Whether it was a plea for mercy or for death, Spy couldn’t tell, but Soldier pumped the shotgun once and shot him point blank in the face. It was deafening. RED Engineer’s face exploded in a hot mist of blood. The angle took most of his face clean off and left a strange red smear across the floor as if someone has dropped a full can of paint. What was left of the man’s face, which wasn’t much, shuddered for a moment more before going still. A cavern of dark red pulp with broken edges of bone was all that remained of the engineer’s skull.

“Disgusting,” Spy snapped, ears ringing. Though his own suit still wore bits of RED Pyro’s innards, Soldier was covered in blood and brain matter from the waist up. “I don’t envy de man who ‘as to sit beside you at dinner.”

Soldier pumped the shotgun again and a shell fell onto the floor with a hollow plastic clatter. He stepped over the engineer’s corpse, which vanished, and aimed at Spy. “March,” he commanded.

“Fuck you.” Spy rolled his eyes. “I’m not one of your little lapdogs.”

The American paused, then smiled. “Yes, sir.”

Spy did a double take. “What?”

The wall beside him exploded. The discharge of a shotgun near his head was so loud it was disorienting. He ducked instinctively, only to catch a boot to the chin, and stumbled backwards. Soldier punched him hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. He gasped like a beached fish and tried to block an elbow to his temple. The blow connected. He felt his skull bounce against the wall, his left knee buckle, and struggled to stay upright. The ground heaved under his feet as if he was on a ship in stormy seas. He knew what would happen if he lost the fight. Had seen it done to others. Blood stung his eye as he tried to centre himself. For God’s sake, he was the real soldier. It shouldn’t have been difficult to get the upper hand on a deluded Yank.

But the world wouldn’t stop spinning. Gravity reached up and pulled him from awkward angles. And he knew, God, he knew if he went down then that was it. That was the end.

Something hard and cold slammed into his face. He staggered against the stairs. Couldn’t even raise his arms to protect his head. His face burned. Involuntary tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. A man-sized shadow approached from the corner of his vision, shovel raised for the final blow, screaming obscenities.

In Vietnam, Spy had seen local peasants kill a pilot the same way with a pitchfork. They had screamed in grief-stricken rage while the pilot bled out in their rice paddy. One of many families that had lost children to indiscriminate bombing runs. Screaming and weeping for their dead.

And sometimes the dead screamed back.


	15. Chapter 15

Spy woke up with the taste of cardboard in his mouth and a horrific headache. The ceiling rocked overhead and aches and pains radiated dully up the base of his spine. He felt groggy. Detached.

Trapped.

“Finally awake, huh?” Soldier leaned over him, perspiring with excitement. “Just in time, too.” He moved away and the dull pain stopped. Spy tried to raise his head, but his neck had been tied to the tabletop beneath him. He tried to lift his arms to remove it, but they were bound, too. He strained his eyes to look over and caught sight of wire hastily twisted around his wrists and the wooden planks underneath him to form crude cuffs. It was the same wire used for the fences outside and it had already chaffed his skin raw. He struggled anyway. It was then that he felt the cool, unpleasant slickness of lube in and around his anus.

That son of a whore.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Spy said in a strangled whisper and tried to twist away. Close his legs. Anything. The only clothes he still wore were his shirt and vest, both of which were open and crumpled underneath his back. Buttons scraped along the back of his spine as he moved. He didn’t care. He had never felt so exposed in his life.

Soldier wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and smiled. Spy tried to find purchase, tried to kick him, but his ankles were bound together. He struggled to free himself and strained against his bonds. It didn’t matter. Soldier laughed quietly and lifted his legs, which had been bound at the knees with his own belt.

“Been planning this for a while,” Soldier explained and shouldered Spy’s legs. “Y’know, got bored and you were making eyes at that RED faggot by the river.” He fished a familiar tube and placed it near Spy’s head. “Found that in your pocket. Figured I’d better put it to better use.” He leaned over the Quebecois until their chests touched. His sweat, his breath, his eyes—all pressing against Spy’s flesh. “I don’t want any traitors on my team. Understand, private? If you’re going to act like a whore then you will be treated like one.” He grabbed Spy’s hips and slid his erection against the other man’s buttocks. “I need trustworthy men on my team.”

The first thrust was the worst. It always was. Spy flinched, but his flesh yielded readily. He stared accusingly at the bottle of lube beside his right hand as Soldier’s cock pressed deeper inside of his body. Wiry hairs grazed the inside of his thighs each time their hips met. He felt the other man’s balls, warm and soft, repeatedly press against the crease between his buttocks. The slap of flesh against flesh filled his ears. Became the only thing that marked time. He hadn’t realized a sound could be so horrible. The buttons underneath him scraped repeatedly up and down his spine. Soldier’s face heaved overhead. His sweat and scent and pleasure smeared across Spy’s chest like a foul paste.

It wasn’t painful. Soldier had thoroughly prepared him. Each thrust was smooth and deep, with the only ache owing to being inexpertly stretched. Every few thrusts hit his sweet spot and for all his struggling, he soon sported an erection.

“Well, shit.” Soldier scowled. “You wanted this all along.” He increased his pace. “Just proves you’ll bend over for any goddamn thing that crosses your path.”

Spy didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. He gritted his teeth and fought against the pleasure spreading through his body, but heat rose to his face. He felt Soldier’s amusement. Felt every inch of that fucker’s cock pounding inside of him. Felt his own body stretch and heat in accommodation. Felt the putrid bloom of humiliation that he had been trained to resist. It was a natural reaction. It didn’t reflect on him. It was just stimulated nerves and blood pressure.

How easy it had sounded back then.

Soldier arched against him and groaned. His penis throbbed pleasantly. He thrusted once, twice, three times with all his strength, which forced Spy to slide further up the table and against his bonds. He suddenly leaned back and pulled Spy’s hips up at an angle and managed several more hard, throbbing thrusts before tensing. He sighed in ecstasy, helmet tilted backwards, and came. Spy felt all of Soldier’s muscles shiver, strive to burrow as deeply inside him as possible, and shut his eyes. The hot gush inside him was sudden and forceful. A final brand of ownership.

The air stank of sex. Soldier ducked out from under Spy’s bound legs and tucked himself back inside his pants. He gave Spy a satisfied once-over before picking up his rocket launcher. “Think about that before running off to your little faggot friend.” He opened a nearby door, which let in a slice of daylight, and strutted away with the air of a conquerer. The door slammed shut with finality and Spy was left in the darkness, filled with hate and cooling semen.

-

No words could describe how Spy felt in the hours after. Bound. Stinking. Filthy. Covered in Soldier’s cum and sweat. Left there like some animal to die. Taking in breath after breath of his scent. The only respite from that newfound awareness was pain. Pain in his wrists, his neck, his legs, his feet. The wire around his throat bit deeply into the flesh between his Adam’s apple and his jaw. Each time he swallowed it clamped down on his windpipe. After hours of struggling, his wrists were raw and throbbed in time with his pulse. Even his legs, which danged over the table’s edge, were subjugated to a spectrum of discomfort from pain to numbness to stiffness. He had all but lost sensation in his feet and that tormented him the most. The pins and needles sensation had faded hours ago and left him to wonder if there was tissue death. He had seen men missing arms and legs and everything in between, and had no wish to join their ranks.

The sounds of battle continued unabated until well into the afternoon. It was dark and dusty inside the room. Spy strained to determine where he was, but he could only see metal shapes glinting in the dimness. What little light there was came from the thin rectangular cutout around the door, where it failed to meet the doorframe. Sweat stung his eyes. His entire body ached and his unsatisfied erection slowly softened against his thigh.

Traitor.

“Fucking asshole,” he croaked. “Fucking piece of shit.”

Nothing affirmed or denied Spy in the silence that followed. A deep tremble started in his diaphragm and spread upwards into his lungs until it crushed the air from him. He uttered something closer to a laugh than a sob and shut his eyes as waves of emotion passed through him. It cut too deeply for grief or anger. Too complex and far-reaching for any one feeling. The core of his being had been breached in a way he had never expected, despite his training and experiences. He had never truly believed he could wind up skewered on another man’s cock. And certainly not to a delusional fool like Soldier.

For Christ’s sake, he had killed mindless lackeys like Soldier to get to his real targets. They weren’t in the same league and to have been spread out and sampled like a….

Spy focused on the ceiling overhead.

The siren sounded for the day. He gave a start that wrenched his wrists and neck. Had it been so long? Already? Spy wasn’t sure if he wanted to be found or not, but he certainly didn’t want to die. And he most certainly didn’t want to die of thirst or infection while strapped naked onto a table. The ignoble end of an extraordinary career.

Spy smiled bitterly and tightened his hands into fists. The wires cut into his wrists as he flexed, but pain was his friend. The measure of a true man. He flexed and struggled and bled until the table underneath him began to squeak in protest. He froze, panting. The planks underneath his back felt like 2x4s. Standard, then. Less than standard if it was old. He swung his legs back and forth, though they ached with weakness. More squeaking. It was agonizingly slow, but gradually the table’s joints began to loosen. He felt more movement underneath him and tried to map his progress with his back muscles. Back and forth. Bleeding, aching, sweating, stinking, and sticky.

Didn’t matter.

Don’t think about it.

Keep moving.

Spy pushed against his bonds, but the supports running horizontally underneath the tabletop wouldn’t give. He clenched his teeth and fought down a wave of hysterical frustration.

Didn’t matter.

Keep moving.

Slowly, so very slowly, the joints loosened. It must have been hours. Or was it? Time felt so abstract when everything was measured in heartbeats. Spy pulled his lips back into a rictus of agony. His wrists and throat bled. Crusted. Cracked open. Bleed. Crusted. Cracked open again. His legs trembled with exhaustion. He was so so tired. His entire body felt giddy and loose, as if his bones had been replaced by rubber bands. Thin and thrumming. Ready to snap.

Then he heard footsteps. Boots on gravel. Crunching. Getting louder and louder.

And then, oh God, the door opened and he glimpsed beautiful blue sky.

The door closed.

It was dark. Suddenly closed in. Tight. He could hear Soldier breathing.

“Still kicking, huh?” Soldier whispered. Stepped closer. He smelled of maleness, sweat, and metal. “We lost today, Frenchie. But I bet you already knew that.” Even in the darkness, Spy could feel his fury. “What did you tell that godless RED son of a bitch? Hmm?” Soldier bent over him, the straps of his helmet brushing against Spy’s chest. His breath was hot and smelled of the scrambled eggs they had shared at breakfast. “What did they give you that we didn’t? Or was having a faggot to play with good enough?”

Spy pried his dry tongue off of the roof of his mouth. “I didn’t….”

“DON’T LIE TO ME, MAGGOT.” Soldier wrapped his fingers around Spy’s neck and squeezed. The wire served as a support and prevented him from crushing Spy’s windpipe. “We got Commies and Nazis and niggers, but they’re our goddamn team.”

There was very little light. Spy writhed on the table, utterly helpless. He couldn’t tell if the darkness swimming in front of his eyes was a shadow or death.

“You fucking parasite,” Soldier hissed, fingers clamping tighter with each breath. “Good men died today because of you.”

Spy heard a zipper somewhere. Felt pain bloom at the base of his spine, but the grip on his throat didn’t soften. Only tightened, stiffened, and then tightened even more. Something warm and heavy and alive slid on top of him. Ground him against the table. Rhythmic pain slid further and further into his centre.

A hot wind against his ear.

“This is what it was like for her. You remember? I do.” The pain and tempo increased. “I watched then just like I watched today. Except she was innocent. She didn’t understand. She never understood those things.” Wet slapping echoed in the silence. “Until you made her understand.” A faraway stab between his thighs. “You remember that? It killed her.”

He heard ringing. Quiet at first. Then not so quiet. Loud. Deafening. Bells. Telephones. Sirens. All screaming. All slicing through his skull. Blasting through his essence like a shock wave.

“You’re the Devil,” Soldier snarled, barely audible over their slapping flesh. “The goddamn fucking Devil himself.”

The ringing reached a fever pitch. Darkness closed in. Sealed over Spy’s eyes. Filled his body.

Noise. Numbness. Nightmares.

Hell on earth.


	16. Chapter 16

Somewhere, bells were tolling.

When Spy awoke, he was lying on a bed in Medic’s office. It was dimly lit and smelled of disinfectant. The doctor himself was seated at the far end of the room at his desk and wrote hurriedly, his right elbow moving sharply in tandem. The scratch of pen on paper was the only sound between them, and Spy found it disconcerting. He tried to move, but his wrists and ankles were bound in leather restraints.

Then he was back in that shack with Soldier thrusting into him, face hovering overhead, no where to hide, no haven from that ugliness. He could smell his breath, his sweat, hear the slapping of their flesh and all the while buttons dug into his spine and it went on forever and Jesus, God, if anyone could hear him why the fuck wasn’t it just over—

“…Spy, Herr Spy!”

Medic stood over him, expression stony. “I vill not tolerate violence here. Calm yourself or I vill sedate you again.”

Spy flinched away from the nearness of another man. He had heard stories. Once a man had been trussed up and fucked, a precedent was set. Others had tacit permission of the group to do the same. It would never be the same. It would never stop. 

“Den lock me up in another room,” he snapped, “don’t tie me to a bed.”

A terrible understanding crossed Medic’s features, but it fled as quickly as it appeared. He stepped back for a moment, thoughtfully, before turning away. “I do not trust you. I vill get Heavy before I do anything of the sort.”

“Doctor,” Spy said and paused until Medic stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Please ‘urry.”

Medic nodded curtly and left the room.

It was silent after that. Under normal circumstances, Spy would’ve taken comfort in being alone in a quiet, enclosed space. A rarity in any front line establishment. But being strapped down to a bed, being helpless, in a soundless room that offered no distraction was torture. He swallowed thickly and tested each of the leather straps. It was logical. Reasonable. None of them yielded, of course. Faulty equipment in the arena of a perfectionist like Medic was a cardinal sin, so he bent and twisted his body within the confines of his bonds to gauge his wounds. There was no pain. Not even a twinge. He craned his neck to look at his wrists, but Medic hadn’t bothered to take off his gloves before restraining him. Without any hint of discomfort, however, Spy doubted there would be any bruising or scarring. He must have been exposed to the medigun or one of Engineer’s dispensers.

Or had it never happened?

Spy gave a start when the door slammed open. Medic walked in, followed by an irritated looking Heavy. The Russian spared him a distrustful glance before crossing his arms. “Not doctor’s servant,” he said peevishly.

 

Medic shot him a cool look. “Please, Heavy. I vould not have disturbed you vithout good reason.”

“Good.” Heavy turned to look at Spy, expression sealing shut. “Little man behave?”

It took all of Spy’s willpower to stifle the laugh that crawled up his throat. He simply nodded and spread his hands on the bed in way of surrender. Heavy stared at him for a long moment before approaching the bed and gestured to Medic, who started unbuckling the restraints. Spy couldn’t help shying away from them as they towered over his prone form. His entire body tensed in anticipation of violence, but Medic simply circled the bed with a clinical expression. Each metallic click sounded loud and ominous, and Spy was keenly aware of Heavy’s tension as the pressure on his wrists and ankles disappeared. The brown limb belts beneath him relaxed like the grip of a dying animal and he was finally free.

Spy sat up and rubbed his left wrist. “Can I leave now?”

Medic looked at him for a long moment. “Not yet. I have something you should see.”

“Oh?”

“Ja. Come vith me.” 

Spy was sore and had to piss like a racehorse, but he didn’t argue. “Oh alright,” he sighed and followed Medic out of the room. Heavy followed behind him radiating an unsaid threat. Everything was quiet in the base. It must have been well into the night. Spy fought off a sudden wave of exhaustion and tried to anticipate where they were going. When there was no noise or human presence, the BLU base felt sterile and unforgiving. The fluorescent lights shone harshly overhead and only emphasized a lack of natural light. They might as well have been rats in a laboratory.

It surprised Spy when they passed by the obnoxious INTELLIGENCE sign. They walked quietly down the hall, and noted the walls bore even more burn marks and bullet holes then before, until they approached a formidable looking door. He was equally surprised when Medic let out a noise of disgust and punched in the code 111 to release the electronic lock. Gears whirred obediently and the door swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges.

“For de love of…really?” Spy asked incredulously.

Medic glanced over his shoulder. “Ja, really.” 

“Leetle Scout’s doing.” Heavy crossed his arms in what could only be described a sulk. “And team say I am stupid.”

The room where BLUs documents were kept was rather plain and ordinary in comparison to the door it was protected by. A small desk and chair sat in one corner while the opposite window commanded a view of the vast room below. Spy looked around for a hint of what was to come, but everything seemed in order. A cold tongue of fear slid up his neck. Perhaps they had lied and wanted to avenge Soldier?

Medic misinterpreted his reaction. “Ah, you remember?”

“Remember?” Spy regarded him distrustfully. “What am I to remember, Doctor?”

Heavy and Medic merely shared a complicated glance and escorted him down the stairs into the large room dominated by a huge screen of BLU’s assets. It was strangely reminiscent of NASA’s mission control room. Spy tried to conceal his own nervousness, but it felt like his heart was ready to leap out of his throat. He fished out his disguise kit, surprised when Heavy’s meaty hand clamped down on his arm like a shark’s mouth.

“What are you doing?” Spy snarled. “I want a fucking cigarette!”

Medic stopped and turned with an air of deadly calm. “Heavy, please release him.” His gaze swivelled to meet Spy’s. “Forgive us, but vith your aberrant behaviour as of late, ve cannot take risks.”

“If you had any sense, you would ‘ave taken my disguise kit away de moment you took me prisoner.” Spy curled his upper lip, but handed it to Heavy anyway. Neither one rose to the bait.

They continued to walk through the rows upon rows of computers until Medic stopped at one in the first row. Its screen, wobbling with a paused image, threw unsteady light across the room.

“Sit,” Heavy commanded.

Spy shot him a defiant look, but obeyed. Medic leaned over him and pressed a button out of sight. The computer hummed to life and began to play black and white footage. He recognized the hall that lead to the war room. Soldier’s image hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. The swing of his helmet, his stride, his boots, his hands. The memory of Soldier above him, his smell, his muscled body, clung to Spy’s skin like ravenous leeches. He shuddered, unable to look away.

A man-shaped blur rushed up from behind Soldier and jumped on him. There was a flash of something silver—a knife?—as the assailant’s arm rose and fell. Rose and fell. Rose and fell. Soldier reacted violently and tried to dislodge his attacker, but his right leg buckled and he toppled over like a condemned building. The other man stood up, his shoulders thrown back in triumph, and Spy knew he was watching himself. The attack itself lacked professionalism, but it made up for it in sheer brutality. He watched himself roll Soldier over, a dark grey blossom on the front of his uniform, and backhand him.

Then the silent movie changed angles. Spy was suddenly facing the intel room. He watched himself drag Soldier’s inert, bleeding form across the floor and onto the desk, and then tie him down. A mix of revulsion and fascination churned in his belly. There was a surreal moment Spy watched himself venture off stage and return with a bucket full of water. Then he waited with the patience of a mantis for Soldier to wake up.

Medic leaned forward and fast forwarded the footage for several minutes. Spy jumped, having completely forgotten that he and Heavy were even present. It was deathly silent when Medic pulled away and the story continued to unfold.

Soldier woke up screaming. Spy couldn’t hear it, but he could see the man’s mouth open; his throat spasming. His desperate thrashing made the desk wobble, but to no avail. His chest rose and fell rapidly and the dark splash across his uniform regained its moist gleam under the light. Spy stood up slowly over Soldier, his body radiating excitement, and slowly undressed him. It was done with great tenderness. Each touch was a thoughtful one. A caress. Excruciatingly kind. Slowly, so slowly, each layer of BLU battle fatigues were peeled back until Soldier lay naked and spreadeagled on the table like a butterfly about to be pinned. Then he was shown a small photograph. Soldier screamed again. His eyes were badly pixelated in the footage, but Spy could feel the intensity—the desperation—from the other side of the screen. It wasn’t that he was sorry, but the suffering was so like his own, so familiar, that he couldn’t take pleasure in it.

And then it began in earnest.

The Spy onscreen took various objects, from a kitchen knife to a rusty pipe, and violated Soldier’s every orifice. Dark grey blood flowed brightly under the fluorescent lights. Spy paused to shrug off his jacket, which was already bloody, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He chose steadily larger specimens and shoved them in Soldier’s anus and mouth, then back again. His back was to the camera most of the time, but there was the telltale curve along his cheek that revealed he was smiling. That curve, that smile, never disappeared. Not once. He retrieved a mirror and showcased his handiwork to Soldier, who had bared his teeth in a rictus of agony. Spy nodded thoughtfully, as if listening to constructive criticism, and put down the wire brush that had been his latest weapon. He disappeared off screen for a moment. Soldier’s chest heaved unsteadily like he was sobbing.

Perhaps he was.

Spy walked back into view holding a slender knife. It wasn’t his usual balisong, but curved and thin like a small scimitar. He said something that made Soldier scream at him, and laughed. He then bent over the American’s crotch and artfully shaved off peels of flesh as if he was harvesting the rind of an orange. It started there, then radiated outward. Up Soldier’s chest, down his thighs, until he quivered in agony. Entire lengths of muscles lay exposed and glistening. 

It ended when both Spy and Soldier’s heads jerked towards the door. A chair slid across the floor. Spy didn’t stop even when the room flooded with his teammates. He kept skinning and skinning and smiling until Heavy tried to restrain him. The Russian’s arms nearly engulfed him in a half-nelson, but Spy resisted with astonishing strength. Even through the screen, Heavy’s surprise was tangible. Scout tried to get the knife out of his hand, but Spy landed a well-aimed kick to his temple and he staggered back, dazed. Sniper appeared on screen and waved his kukri at Spy in a threatening manner, the answer to which was Spy throwing his head back and laughing. Sniper stumbled back and nicked his heel on the bucket of water. With an angry snarl, he lifted it and hurled the into Spy’s face.

The change in body language was instant.

Medic stopped the footage just as Heavy and Demo went about disarming Spy. “Vell?” He prompted in the silence the followed. “Explain yourself.”

Spy stared at the screen for a long time. “I can’t,” he said quietly. “Dat is my body, my skill, but dat is not me.” He slowly bent forward and turned the monitor off. “I don’t know who dat man is.”

The world map, covered by BLU’s spheres of influence, provided a muted blue light that glanced off the rows of computers. Everything else fell into darkness.


	17. Chapter 17

Medic turned away from Engineer and adjusted his glasses. “Herr Spy, are you ready?”

Spy didn’t look up from lighting his cigarette. “Oui,” he mumbled.

The respawn machine had been fitted unobtrusively into the resupply room and was essentially invisible unless someone knew what to look for. The only sign of there being anything unusual was a round metal plate roughly in the middle of the floor. Engineer turned to him and tried to smile reassuringly, but his disgust and fear bled through. 

“Don’t worry, Slim. It’s safe.”

Spy exhaled smoke through his nostrils like a dragon. “It’s not very impressive.”

Engineer laughed weakly. “You should see what’s under the floor, then.” His expression became more business-like. “Alright now, just step on that spot right there. That’s right.”

“I’m not a calf you ‘ave to coax,” Spy snapped and stood over the small plate. “Let’s get dis done quickly.”

“Alright, alright. No need for ill-temper.” All good humour left Engineer as he held up a remote and flicked the switch.

A quiet hum filled the room; filled the space behind Spy’s eyes. He grimaced, but didn’t speak. An odd tingle swept across his flesh, as tentative and prickling as a spider’s touch. His hair stood on end. The resupply room felt closed and hot and untrustworthy. He couldn’t help glancing at Engineer and then at Medic, both of whom looked calm. Spy rolled his shoulders in an effort to appear indifferent, but the unpleasant feeling continued to intensify. An involuntary shudder ran through his body, shook him like a child shook a piggy bank. His left knee buckled first and he hit the floor with bruising force, but the pain he expected was distant. Muffled.

And then a high, electronic scream ruptured his eardrums. Cleaved his head in two and vibrated against the back of his eyes. The pain was incredible. Spy shrieked—or maybe it was his imagination. He thought he made a sound. Or maybe it was just a thought. Bells, gongs, phones, alarms. A surge of electronic and percussive noise that threatened to explode out of his skull. Deafening. Like he was standing beside a jet engine.

Hands. Voices. A tinny whine.

His massive frame drew all focus in the room, despite the blood stain on the table. “Never, you fucking devil,” he howled, “I’d rather be…” 

“…dead?”

Cardboard. In his mouth. Dry. So very dry.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Herr Spy, you’re not dead.”

Spy groaned piteously. “Am I ‘ungover?” He opened his eyes only to be rewarded by a white light boring into his skull. He flinched away, hand raised. “Stop dat.”

“You’re not hungover,” Medic replied, slowly coming into focus. He was bent over Spy with a clinical expression. “Vell, your pupils are even and responding to stimuli. Still puzzling, though. Do you have a history of epilepsy?”

It took a moment for the implications to sink in. Spy rubbed his eyes looked around the room. He was back in Medic’s office, bed-ridden, with a restraining strap around his waist. There were no windows to give an indication of the time of day, but the lights had been dimmed. A cold thread of unease pulled taut in his stomach.

“Epilepsy?”

Medic nodded and for the first time looked like an actual doctor. It was the stethoscope, Spy realized, which hung around his neck. It was out of place and ordinary. He had expected it to be blue like everything else was, but it was grey. Without the BLU logo that was stamped on every piece of equipment on the base. A relic of the world they had left behind. 

“Yes.” Medic adjusted his glasses. “Herr Spy, you suffered a grand mal seizure. There is no mention of this in your chart. My equipment did nothing to alleviate it and so I’ve had to adopt,” he sighed irritably, “more traditional methods.”

“A seizure?” Spy frowned, still feeling sluggish. “No. Never.”

“Are you certain?”

It was Spy’s turn to sigh irritably. “Oui. Dere is no way I could perform de tasks I do with dat axe ‘anging over my ‘ead.” He unbuckled the restraint around his waist and felt the rising panic in his stomach dissipate. “I’ve never experienced such a ding before.”

“Hmm.” Medic looked remote. “Vell, it’s been known that extraordinary stress can cause such things.”

Spy raised his head, though a reference to himself and Soldier felt like a punch to his kidneys. “Did I look stressed?”

Medic regarded him over the rim of his glasses. “I’m…disinclined to trust appearances,” he said after a moment, voice thrumming with bitterness. “For now, the likeliest explanation I can give has to do with respawning.”

“Ah.” Spy nodded as if he understood. “Was I scanned in?”

Medic shrugged. “I don’t know. The process ended abruptly vhen you lost consciousness. Herr Engineer is vorking on it as we speak.”

“Den what can you tell me, Doctor?” Spy swung his legs over the side of the bed and gathered enough strength to stand. He noticed Medic drew back ever so slightly. “Besides dat I’m a ‘omidical maniac.” 

“Vhat can I say?” Medic replied sharply and tore his stethoscope from around his neck. “You don’t have the traditional symptoms that vould accompany a seizure or amnesia. No one else has reacted to the respawn system as you have.” He gestured towards the door. “Besides your obvious psychiatric problems, I can find nothing to explain vhat happened.”

Spy scoffed. “I’m not dat crazy.”

Medic’s expression didn’t change. “For now, I believe you fit enough to leave my care, but I vill not clear you for battle.” He adjusted his glasses. “Not until Engineer ensures you’re integrated safety into the system.”

“Is dat so?” Spy nodded philosophically. “Not to seem disrespectful, Doctor, but just ‘ow will you keep me from killing REDs? I’m not going to sit idly by while my fellow teammates ‘ave all de fun.” 

“Vell, I could tranquilize you like an animal and strap you down to one of these beds, since you so enjoyed it the last time.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But I said I vouldn’t clear you, not keep you out of danger. You’re an adult, Herr Spy. You vill do what you vant. As the physician for this team, however, I’m telling you it’s not a good idea, making a note of it in your chart, and vashing my hands of whatever death that befalls you.”

It took a moment for Spy to compose himself. “Dat will do,” he replied curtly, and brushed past Medic with thinly concealed emotion.

“Herr Spy.”

Spy paused, but didn’t turn around. “Oui?”

Medic sounded tired. “At least consider the possibility that I’m trying to save your life.” 

“Even after what you saw on de video?” He retorted dismissively.    
“Even after that.”

Spy looked at Medic, then. The German man had one hand on his hip, the other resting on a bedside tray, and bore the exhausted look of a surgeon who had spent hours trying to keep a patient’s life from ebbing away under his fingertips.

“Alright Doctor.” Spy turned away and walked out the door. “I’ll…consider it.”

-

It was raining.

Spy hesitated in the doorway. It was late evening and the storm clouds had all but eclipsed the sun’s waning light. Curtains of water fell, sweeping along the fort’s southern face and soaking the lower half of Spy’s body. The rain’s cold sting cut deep into his bones. Eased the shame that had been grafted there. He glanced around, but no one was nearby. It was a crime to abuse such an expensive suit, but Spy found the icy downpour irresistible. He took off his watch and shoved it into his breast pocket, and stepped out into the storm.

Rainstorms in the desert were rare, but when they appeared they did so with a vengeance. Spy tilted his head up and shut his eyes. Rain hammered against his skin, as hard and cold as bullets. Thunder rolled overhead, close enough that he felt its concussive force.

Long ago, so long ago, his father had told him thunder was the sound of God bowling. 

Spy walked in the chasm between the RED and BLU forts. He hadn’t thought about God in a long time. It was a maudlin thing, belonging to a forsaken childhood, but he couldn’t quite shake it. Rain soaked his suit and he had to bow his head in order to see where he was going. A small path curved away from the forts and disappeared along a skyline of hoodoos that populated the southern edge of their battleground. There was so much rain that it created waterfalls amongst the already eroded stone and swept down the ground and past the fence. Beyond that, a river glittered like a silver thread.

He walked up to the fence and pressed his head against it. The desert beyond looked unreachable. He shut his eyes and the rain kept pouring over him, thoroughly soaking his suit. He was cold and uncomfortable. A tremor started in his back and shoulders, and spread into his limbs. Thunder boomed overhead and a gust of wind hurled raindrops against his back like knives. It hurt, but it was a good hurt. A feeling he could resist and control. A feeling that left him numb and shivering.

Spy punched the chain link fence. Again. And again. And again. It jingled thinly, a sound that hovered on the cusp of familiarity. He let his arms fall and stood there, panting, until his legs folded underneath him. He landed in the muck with an ignoble plop, but was beyond caring. The ground was cold and saturated with moisture. He pulled his knees up to his chin and waited for the rain to wash the memory of Soldier from his body.

The shivering worsened.

A flash of lightning cleaved through the gloom, immediately followed by a sharp clap of thunder. Spy looked up at the clouds overhead. Rain pummelled his face. It was very cold. He sucked in a steeling breath and glanced over his shoulder. Puddles had grown into ponds. Mud slid towards the ground in viscous rivulets. The entire landscape was shifting beneath him. Lightning flashed again and a deafening boom hit Spy like a physical blow. He lowered his head against his knees again and felt a fatalistic calm.

Footsteps gradually seeped into his awareness. Irregular. Unsteady. Someone who was injured?

Soldier?

Spy raised his head and reached inside his jacket. His revolver felt reassuringly heavy as he unholstered it. Rain beaded on the silver gun barrel and traced the curvaceous woman engraved there. He held it close to his chest and shifted to face his enemy. A murky grey silhouette emerged from the blur of rain. No, not Soldier. The man was too tall. Too thin. And that hat.

It was RED Sniper.

The strange kiss they had shared whipped Spy like a piano wire. He stretched his legs, which tingled unpleasantly, and bent forward so his coat hid his gun’s aim. Sniper walked unhurriedly, boots sinking into the muck. He nearly lost his balance twice on the path’s steep curve, but each time he threw his hand over his hat and carried on. He was wearing some sort of thigh length jacket that repelled the rain—and frankly made him look like a cowboy.

“G’day,” he said causally.

Spy stared at him. “It’s almost night.”

“Oh.” Sniper looked over his shoulder, although there was nothing remarkable about the overcast sky. “You’re right.” He turned back and peered over the rim of his aviators. “Got a fire going by my van if you’re interested.”

“You live in a van?”

“Well..yea.” Sniper frowned. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

Spy shrugged. “I suppose not. Now please go. I wish to be alone.”

Sniper walked forward, not necessarily towards him, but around him until they were face to face. Spy took his gun out from behind his jacket and cocked the hammer back. The storm was loud and omnipresent, but that click sliced through all ambient noise like a scalpel through flesh.

“Leave,” Spy said quietly.

Sniper slowly hunched down until they were at eye level. “It happened to me once when I was a schoolie.” His expression turned stoic, but his hands flexed like claws. “I get it, mate. More than anybody else.” He stretched out his arm in the Legionnaire fashion. “Not offering a pity party. Just a spot by the fire.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Spy told us the whole thing. Says he plans to use it against you next time you meet.” Sniper shook his head. “Man’s got no sense of where to draw the line.”

Spy looked away, Adam’s apple bobbing. “And you’re just doing dis out of the goodness of your ‘eart?”

“Yea, I suppose. Us blokes got to stick together.” Sniper didn’t lower his arm. “No strings, mate.” The corners of his mouth curled upwards. “Promise.”

Spy grabbed Sniper’s forearm and closed the distance between them. “I’ll ‘old you to dat,” he said through bared teeth, “and God ‘elp you if you’re a liar.”

Sniper pulled him to his feet with a full-blown smile. “Now that’s more like it.”


	18. Chapter 18

A blue tarp had been tied to the top corners of Sniper’s camper van and held down on the other side by two rusting iron spikes. A hole had been dug into the sand for the campfire, which burned familiar wooden planks arranged like a tipi. Sniper’s vehicle bore the brunt of the wind, but there was enough force to draw smoke outside. The tarp slowly billowed like a sail. Rain drummed overhead, but the fire’s crackling drowned out the storm. Thunder still rumbled, but it sounded distant. Less threatening. 

The campfire had been placed just inside Sniper’s lean-to. Spy hunched down beside it, shivering. He hadn’t realized how cold he felt until the fire’s heat washed over him. 

The camper door squealed as Sniper stepped out, towel flung over his shoulders. He held two beers between his fingers. “How those clothes fit?” 

Spy stilled. “Fine. Just ‘and me one of dose and I’ll warm up.” 

“Don’t be a loon.” Sniper dropped the beer on his chair. “Your lips are as blue as that bloody mask you wear. Drinking will only make it worse if you’re still cold.” 

“Then why de fuck did you bring beer out?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sniper chuffed. “Carrot on a stick.” 

“You shouldn’t be ‘elping me.” 

“Yea.” He dragged the towel off of his shoulder and held it out. 

Spy’s eyes flicked away. He accepted the towel and patted it against his mask. It smelled of laundry detergent. Not the industrial brand BLU shipped out to them, but of home. He inhaled its scent and pressed his face into it. So soft and warm. Memories of lounging near Riviére-Malbaie sprang upon him. Hazy afternoons spent by the water with his cousins while the adults chatted around the fire pit. 

“Merci.” Spy folded the towel over the nearest rope to dry. The drumroll of rain had slowed. He glanced outside the lean-to. It was dark. Only silver glints suggested raindrops. Smells of moist earth mixed with the smell of Sniper’s clothes. A spasm surged from his core into his throat. It was hard to stay silent. 

“You alright?” 

“Oui.” Spy glanced over his shoulder. “Just the cold.” 

Sniper unfolded two beaten chairs and placed them near the fire. “Then c’mere. Warm up.” 

Spy looked at him for a moment, then sat down in the nearest one. It had roses on a faded blue background and creaked under his weight. He put his feet near the fire and sighed. Sniper sat next to him on an equally ugly chair (delphiniums against green) and took out his car keys. He had an opener on the chain and popped the bottle cap with practised ease. 

“So ‘ow did you get over it?” 

Sniper paused, beer half-way to his lips. “I didn’t.” He took a long drink and stretched his legs towards the fire. “Dropped out of school and went to work hunting in the GAFA. No people. Just beasties. An animal will kill you and eat you. That’s it. People, though. People take their time. They think it through. They’ll fossick through your wallet, your mind, your freckle. It’s them you got to watch out for. Far as I’m concerned, I’m making this planet safer one mark at a time.” 

“What’s de gaffa?” 

“Great Australian fuck all.” 

Spy stared into the fire. “What if we...‘elp each other?” 

Sniper paused, looked at him. “Wot do you mean?” 

Something popped in the fire. As loud and sharp as a gunshot. Spy leaned forward and propped his elbows on his thighs. His disguise kit lay on the ground beside the chair. He plucked it off the ground and flicked it open. The outside was still wet, but his cigarettes were dry. He avoided Sniper’s eye as he lit one with the Australian’s battered lighter. 

“Well,” he exhaled a jet of blue smoke, “we could fuck.” 

Sniper’s mouth hung open. 

Spy held his cigarette up and lean his head against his forearm. He stared at Sniper’s lighter. An old zippo with a snake down the front covered in nicks and scratches. He flicked it open, then shut, and tossed it back to Sniper who caught it with one hand. 

“Don’t look at me like dat. I want Soldier out of my system.” 

“Jesus Christ, mate.” Sniper took his hat off and put it on one knee. 

“I know I came across as...rough out dere. You surprised me.” Spy took a hard drag on his cigarette. “It’ll just be a once off ding. Oui? No bullshit. Just sex.” 

Sniper watched him take another drag on his cigarette. “I’m flattered, mate. I am. It’s nice to know a bloke like you would want an old man like me. But--” 

Spy turned away. “Den fuck off. I don’t need to be coddled.” 

“Christ. Alright alright.” Sniper leaned back into his chair. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” 

“Afraid?” Spy shot him a venomous glance. 

“Nah, mate. It’s not about Soldier. It’s about that kiss.” 

Spy rolled his eyes. “Still worrying over dat? It was just a--” 

“It bloody wasn’t and you know it. I know it.” Sniper stood up and tossed his hat on the lawn chair. “I’m here to make my money and get out. No complications. Wot ever else that kiss was, it was complicated. I don’t need that.” 

“Den why,” Spy asked quietly, “de fuck did you invite me ‘ere?” 

Sniper pinched the bridge of his nose and took a long time in answering. “Because I wish someone had done the same for me.” 

Spy waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t want to talk about feelings.” 

Sniper looked at him, then at the fire. “I’m nearly old enough to be your father. I....” He exhaled harshly and took another swig from his beer. “You’re welcome to come here after the fighting’s over, but I’m not hopping into bed with you.” 

“Your loss.” Spy crossed his arms. “And I told you to stop coddling me. If you ‘ave no interest in fucking, den don’t expect me to come all de way out ‘ere and sit around de campfire.” 

Sniper shook his head. “He really did you in, didn’t he?” 

Spy tapped his cigarette and watched the ash dissipate in the wind. “I’m...irked, but I got ‘im back. I trapped ‘im and I did ‘orrible dings to ‘im. I made ‘im scream. So very very loud.” He raised his chin. “I got ‘im back.” 

The wind picked up again and the tarp overhead expanded like a lung. Spy shivered and pulled his chair closer to the fire. Moisture slipped from the crease of his eye. He wiped it away until his skin burned. The fire popped again and the smell of sap filled his nose. 

Sniper dragged his chair over too and sat down so their shoulders touched. Spy gave a start, but didn’t pull away. “It’s alright to be irked, mate.” When there was no other reaction, he added, “Blokes like us need to watch out for each other, yea?” 

Spy hmphed. “And dat’s not complicated?” 

“Look.” Sniper tilted his hat back to scratch his hairline. “How about we...have an understanding. Yea? It’s my job to kill BLUs and it’s yours to kill REDs. So if you and that Soldier are out in the open, I’ll shoot him first. If we’re lucky, I might get him right in the donger.”

“I see.” Spy took a drag on his cigarette. “And in return?” 

Sniper cleared his throat. “Sometimes my teammates give me surprise visits. If you happen to be around, it’d be nice for them to die before I do.” 

Spy stared at him. “During de fighting?” 

“Yea, well.” Sniper took a long drink from his beer. “Can’t do it any other time, I s’ppose.” 

The tarp made another inhalation and let in a sweep of cold air. Spy took a long drag from his cigarette, let his head fall back, and exhaled a jet of smoke. The fire’s warmth slowly radiated up his legs until he had to move his feet away from the pit. He remembered that feeling from Riviére-Malbaie, waiting anxiously for Mama to let him cook marshmallows. 

Christ, first God and now his mother. 

Spy closed his eyes. “Fine.” He pushed himself out of his chair and headed towards the camper door. “I don’t see why not.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“To get my clothes. I want to go before we start painting each other’s nails.” 

Sniper threw his head back and laughed. “Don’t think we’re at that point, mate. I’ll stick with my coldie.” He watched Spy climb one stair and hesitate. “Your clothes aren’t going to be dry anyway. Stick around for a bit--you’re looking warm enough for a beer of your own.” 

Spy tossed him a peevish look. “ow romantic.” 

Sniper opened the other beer with a deft twist of his keys and held it up over his head. “Promise we’ll only talk tits and guns.” 

“Tabarnak, I ‘ope not.” Spy looked at him for a long moment, then turned away from the door and sat back down. He accepted the other beer with a two-fingered salute. “Merci, bushman.” 

“Only for tonight,” Sniper parried. 

Spy flicked his cigarette to the ground. He looked at Sniper, mouth slowly curling into a smile, and held his beer forward. “You may regret dat in de morning.” 

Sniper chuffed and clinked his bottle against Spy’s. “We’ll see, won’t we?”


	19. Chapter 19

Engineer put his toolbox on the kitchen table with a sharp thump and jammed his thumps under the straps of his overalls. “Welp, I think I solved the problem, fellas.”

“Ah, good.” Medic gulped the last of his tea and stood up. “It vould be nice to get Herr Spy ready before ze next battle.”

Spy’s eyes flicked between the two of them, but gave no other acknowledgement.

“Er, right.” Engineer rubbed the back of his neck. “I found some old ghost code that was interfering with your template, Spah. Little wonder it nearly fried your brain. Was trying to rewrite the whole darned thing.”

“Vas zat why my medigun failed to work?” Medic frowned as he shrugged on his coat. “Because he vas not in ze system?”

“You got it in one, Doc.” Engineer picked up his toolbox again with visible effort. “Now let’s get this done. I’m near tuckered out.”

He left for the supply room without waiting to see if anyone followed him. Medic sighed and headed towards the door, but paused half-way out. “Herr Spy?”

Spy took a long drag from his cigarette before flicking it onto the floor. “No need to nag, doctor.”

The hallways were quiet, which was typical right after dinner. Spy loosened his tie and listened as they passed by the common room. Pyro sat alone in front of the television, shoulders hunched forward. Soldier had broken it yesterday in a frenzy and Engineer had been too busy with Spy’s problems to fix it. The next hallway yawned to Spy’s left and led to the intelligence room. New bullet holes decorated the walls, some still rimmed with gore. His lip curled in distaste. The smell of old blood clung to the back of his throat like a paste. No matter how many times he’d killed others, he never got used to the way it stuck to his tongue. He reached for his cigarettes, then remembered he couldn’t smoke during the scan in.

“Tabarnak,” he muttered.

Medic glanced over his shoulder. “Vhat?”

Spy shook his head. “Nothing.”

The next hallway led to their sleeping quarters. Spy expected to see it empty, but froze when someone turned the corner. His hand was already on his revolver. Medic sensed his tension and followed his gaze.

Scout paled when he recognized Spy. “Hey fags,” he brayed, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Spy released the butt of his revolver and continued walking. “Run along, boy.” 

“Whatever, man.” Scout gave him a wide berth and trotted ahead between Engineer and Medic. “Having a party or something?”

“Fixing the respawn,” Engineer replied. “Now get.”

Scout puffed up his chest. “Screw you, hardhat. I want to see what this baby does.”

Engineer just shook his head and plodded on.

The supply room was oddly quiet. Spy stepped inside with a tight chest. He wasn’t a nervous man, but having Medic, Engineer, and Scout watching him made sweat trickle down his spine. He stood over the small metal plate that marked the respawn machine and waited. Medic’s stethoscope hung out of a black bag on the bench. A traditional doctor’s arsenal. His forehead tingled in anticipation. 

“Jesus, you guys look ready to shit your pants.” Scout leaned against the wall and cross his arms. “What’s the big deal?”

“This here’s a delicate procedure, Scout. Keep your voice down.” Engineer took out a remote and gave Medic the nod.

Spy clenched his jaw. “What ‘e means, boy, is if you don’t shut de fuck up, you’ll be testing de respawn instead of me.”

“Okay okay, geez.” Scout raised his hands. “Don’t have to be a jerk about it.”

Medic’s lips thinned in disapproval. “Herr Spy, are you ready?”

“Oui.”

Engineer flicked the switch.

A hum resonated in Spy’s skull. Twanged the back of his eyes. Rattled his teeth together. He grimaced and rubbed his forehead. It was unpleasant but not painful. Then something sharp wrenched his neck. The pain shot upwards into the base of Spy’s skull and radiated through his head. He gasped and clutched his temples. Pain needled his ears and eyes. It felt like someone was pulling a hook out of his skin.  
The pain intensified. Shot through the major nerves in his face. He heard an electronic whine. High and grating like a dentist’s polisher.

“Shit, man.” Scout’s voice sounded tinny. “He’s freaking out.”

More noises—more pain. He heard bells, sirens, and dialling. Every electronic noise of every texture and intensity scraped his ears like a grater. The vibration behind his eyes spread to his skull, then down his spine into his chest. Jangled his innards. His stomach writhed. Oh God, he was going to throw up—in front of all of them.

Then it stopped. All of it all at once. His heart nearly punched a whole through his chest. 

“Spah.” Engineer pulled his goggles down around his neck. “Don’t do anything rash, now. We can sort all this out.”

“Rash?” Spy repeated slowly.

“He means,” Medic interjected calmly, “zat you should put ze gun down.”

Spy glanced down. His revolver shone polished silver under the florescent lights. The barrel felt cold and wonderful through his mask. It shook. No. His hands shook. His entire body shook. But he felt nothing. No fear. No embarrassment. Just burning hot and weak. He pressed the gun harder into the flesh beneath his chin. The others had formed a rough semi-circle between himself and the door. A ring of glistening eyes. They looked puzzled. Shocked. Ready to act.

It made him angry.

“Why should I?” He demanded and thumbed the hammer back. “It’s my life.” A thrill of fear rushed up his spine. “Isn’t it?”

“Take it easy, man.” Scout raised his hands. “You ain’t yourself.”

“You ‘ave it all wrong. I’m myself now more den ever. I’m still free. I’m still—real.”

Engineer’s brows furrowed in concern. “You’re not making a lick of sense.”

Medic glanced at his black bag. “He’s sick. He’s having a reaction to ze respawn.”

“Sick? Look at him,” Scout snapped, “he’s crazy.” 

Spy shook his head. Sweat began to soak through his mask. “Don’t you understand?” He whispered and pressed his back against the wall. “You’re not real.”

Medic held up his hands and took a step forward. “Herr Spy….”

“No!” Spy pointed the revolver at him. “De minute you came back from de dead, you stopped being ‘uman.” He swung the gun wildly at them. “All of you. You’re freaks. Get away from me.” 

Engineer lowered the remote. “Spah, this isn’t you. It’s someone else. There must—there’s more ghost code that I missed. That’s what this is.”

“No.” Spy jammed his revolver under his chin again. “I’m me now. And I’m not going back dere.”

“Jesus.” Scout pushed himself away from the wall.

Spy stared at him. “I know everything. I know you’re in dere. And you. And you.” He looked at Medic and then Engineer, wild-eyed. “You’re all dere—rotting away like fucking carcasses in a ditch.” He started laughing. “Dey took what made you you and downloaded it into a machine.”

Medic glanced at Engineer. “What are you talking about? Explain to us, Herr Spy. We don’t understand.” 

“Why aren’t you screaming?” Spy roared, eyes bulging. “Because you don’t feel it anymore. You’ll never understand.”

Medic leaned towards Engineer. “Has zis ever happened before?”

Engineer shook his head. “Not even in the test logs.”

“Non, it wasn’t ever supposed to. You’re not supposed to remember any of it.” Spy slumped backwards and stared at the floor. “Dis is my fault. I should’ve fought ‘arder for you. I should’ve done more den left clues like we were in a fucking fairy tale.”

“Clues?” Medic adjusted his glasses.

Spy smiled wanly. “It’s too late, doctor. I apologize, I should’ve done more. I shouldn’t have made de deal. I shouldn’t ‘ave brought Scout’s father into dis. I could’ve….” He firmed his grip on the revolver. “But I can’t do dis anymore. Be ‘ere and remember. I’m sorry. To all of you.”

“That RED back-stabbing scumbag ain’t my Dad.” Scout stepped forward. “Fuck you, man, where the fuck do you get to say shit like that, huh? Fu—”

Spy pulled the trigger.

-

Someone was cupping Spy’s cheek.

He felt cold. Numb. His entire body felt cramped and too tight. Had he fallen down? He opened his eyes and for a terrifying moment, he saw only pale brightness. He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue was glued to the roof his mouth. It took seven full seconds to tear it off the roof of his mouth. His throat felt dry, but he wasn’t thirsty. There was a jumble of noise. Voices? He couldn’t quite pin it down. Everything was dim.

A sharp electric whine needled his ears. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision.

“Ze battery is fading. Quickly!” The hands shifted and the brightness receded. “‘e’s gaining consciousness.”

Something clicked. He heard that grating whine again and then—

He saw a red blur. It slowly sharpened until it had lines. Stripes. A faint smell. Cigarettes and cologne. He craned his neck to look up, felt his neck muscles obey, but nothing happened. He tried to swallow, but his throat made a hollow popping sound. It was so dry and there was too much air. There was—too much. He looked down at his nose, saw the curve of his cheek and—

And a metal table.

No chest.

No arms.

No legs.

No feet.

Spy looked and looked and looked. He felt his right arm up rise, felt the fingers flex, but there was nothing. He could feel it, but there was nothing. Only empty space where his body should have been. The same body he had been born with, the hands he had pilfered pockets and cookies with, arms he had used to strangle his enemies and hug his Mama with. Legs that had saved his life. Feet that had felt cold and hot and sticky and numb. A body he had scarred. His body.

Gone.

“Don’t look at zat. Look at me.”

Spy’s throat spasmed. He heard that awful popping sound again.

“Look at me.”

Spy blinked rapidly and met RED Spy’s gaze. The other man looked thinner than he remembered. He glanced over his counterpart’s shoulder saw Scout holding a black battery.

“Scout,” he said. Or meant to. It emerged as a dry click of his tongue against his teeth.

He had no lungs.

He couldn’t speak.


	20. Chapter 20

Spy sat heavily in his chair and watched warning messages scroll across the computer screen. He took out his disguise kit, grasped a cigarette with his lips, and flicked his lighter open. Its inscription ‘Play Dirty’ flashed in the room’s dim light before a small flame scorched the tip of his smoke. He flicked it shut and exhaled a long blue breath.

“Wot the fuck are you doing?”

Sniper stood in the doorway clutching a note in his hand. He held it up, mouth pressed into a bloodless line. A fine tremor ran through the floor.

“Drive north. Meet you riverside.” He tossed the paper aside. “Wot are you playing at?”

Spy glanced at the computer screen and stood up. “Dere’s no time for dis.” He walked up to Sniper and grasped his hands. “You ‘ave to go,” he hissed. “Barry—please. You shouldn’t be ‘ere.”

Sniper tightened his grip and pulled Spy towards the door. “Neither should you. C’mon.”

“Not yet.” Spy wrested his hands from Sniper’s. “You weren’t supposed to find dat until later.” 

“Fortunate zat I came along when I did, zen.” RED Spy materialized from behind Sniper. Only the glow of his cigarette lit his features as he stepped around his teammate into the room’s shadowy interior. 

Spy looked wild-eyed at his counterpart. “You prick,” he whispered, then turned and pushed Sniper back towards the door. “Run, you idiot.”

“Like hell I will.” Sniper pushed back. “He told me everything. You didn’t have any intention of meeting me, did you? This is a suicide mission.”

Spy pushed with all his strength. “GO.”

“No.” Sniper clutched Spy’s tie like a lifeline. “Not without you.”

RED Spy lifted his revolver. “And so ‘ere we are—again.”

The flash scorched Spy’s eyes. He felt the heat, felt the noise pierce his eardrums, felt Sniper’s hands fall away. Everything settled back into darkness, but his ears rang. He stumbled back against the computer desk. It should’ve hurt. He only felt cold. 

“You will not end zis in a glorious blaze of martyrdom.” RED Spy stepped forward. “Not while my son,” he bared his teeth, “and every man in zis God forsaken place ‘as a chance to reclaim zeir lives.”

Spy ignored him. Sniper groaned and leaned against the doorframe, hand over his abdomen. Blood soaked his shirt before he slid to the ground. Spy kneeled in front of him and pressed his hands over Sniper’s. They were trembling. Clammy. Blood seeped from underneath Spy’s fingers within two heartbeats. His gloves were sopping wet within seven. He might as well have been putting his thumb over a hose nozzle.

Outside, the compound’s klaxon wailed. 

RED Spy looked at the computer screen. “Congratulations. Sapping ze cooling system worked. Ze reactor is in meltdown.”

Spy blinked rapidly. Sniper looked up at him, huffing in pain. “You were supposed to be hours away by now. I put iodine tablets on your bedside table. To be sure.” Sweat rolled like tears down his face. “Dis was de older reactor. De weakest one. It would start a chain reaction and all of dis would be over.” He pressed harder on Sniper’s wound. “You were supposed to drive off into de fucking sunset with your money and get old and fat.” 

Sniper gritted his teeth. “So we’re all going to die?”

“Oui.” Spy pressed his forehead against Sniper’s. “We’re all going to die.”

“No,” RED Spy said flatly. “We are going to die and you are going to live long enough to see zis program restarted.”

Spy put his arms around Sniper. “Non. I’m done. I’m not leaving. Fuck you, your son, and your lives.”

Sniper shook his head. “Don’t die.”

“Shh, you silly old man.” Spy pulled him close. Felt Sniper’s shallow breath on his neck. “It’ll be fine. You won’t feel a ding.”

Another tremor raked through the floor. A muted explosion. The concussive wave shattered the screen displaying RED’s world map. He heard the rattle of failing concrete. Squealing metal. The lights flickered. 

Sniper clutched his jacket. “Don’t die.”

“If you die, ‘e dies.” RED Spy met the Quebecois’ eye. “Sniper’s van ‘as a full tank. You can survive long enough for rescue.”

Spy shook his head. The lights flickered. Several went dark and stayed dark. The klaxon’s scream fell and rose again. 

“Please Acelin,” Sniper whispered. “I don’t wanna die like this.”

RED Spy sat down in a nearby chair. Warning lights threw odd shadows across his face. “You ‘elped zem start zis. You can do so again.”

“Dat took…years.” Spy’s gaze never strayed from Sniper’s. “De money, de technology….”

Sniper slowly lifted his hand to touch Spy’s face. His breath hitched. He might as well have been reaching for the moon. His arm fell into his lap and his breathing turned into harsh strokes.

“Non.” Spy grabbed his hand held it tightly. Sniper’s eyes moved to meet his again, then stilled. “Non non non.” He brought their hands together against his forehead. “Oh mon Dieu pas.” 

RED Spy watched without expression. “If you ever want to see ‘im again, get ze fuck out of ‘ere.”

Sniper exhaled and went still. Spy lifted his head. It felt like he was moving through water. 

“For ‘im, I will,” he said quietly. “But if you believe what I did to Lieutenant Doe was cruel, wait until I get my ‘ands on you.” 

RED Spy simply nodded. “I…”

“…know it’s one of these two.”

A click. A teeth-numbing buzz then….

“Ah, good. ‘e’s back.” RED Spy straightened up, face clammy but composed. “Who knew panicking used up so much energy?”

Spy’s mouth felt dry. He swallowed, only to hear an odd click. He glanced down and saw a table where his body should have been. Strange. He limbs felt cold and cramped and heavy. He could feel them. He could feel the table. He could feel….

“Shit man, he’s gonna fry again.” Scout walked into view carrying two batteries. He avoided Spy’s eye and tossed them in the garbage. “Got that thing hooked up yet?”

RED Spy grasped a small monitor and pulled it into Spy’s field of vision. Its screen was dark with a single prompt. Spy blinked slowly and the text came into focus.

Subject_492/Interface_6$

“It’s a marvellous toy Medic created a while ago,” Red Spy said, “despite its limitations.” He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned closer. “Are you ze BLU Spy—yes or no.”

Spy frowned. Of course he was. He squinted as a single word appeared on the screen. 

>Yes.

Spy opened his mouth like a dying fish. Felt resistance. Wires. Felt them underneath his chin. Underneath his skin. Branching into what was left of his throat. Three wires jutting out of his neck and looped out of his vision. Blood had gathered in a black, coagulated pool. It smelled like a cut of beef left out of the fridge. Sweet and rotten. 

>No.  
>No.  
>No.  
>No.  
>No.  
>No.  
>No.  
>No.  
>No.  
>No.

RED Spy bent down so they were at eye level.“Listen to me. Zis is important.” He quashed his cigarette on the table near Spy’s jaw. “I took an incredible risk to speak with you.” His eyes flicked towards Scout, who stood awkwardly by RED Medic’s desk. “I need to know what you know.”

Spy couldn’t tear his eyes away from the blood gathering beneath him. He was rotting. Then and there. Only the enemy medic’s contraption kept his brain intact. 

Somewhere to his left, a machine began to beep. The computer screen kept scrolling.

“He’s gonna fry again,” Scout hissed. 

“Acelin.”

Spy’s eyes swivelled to meet RED Spy’s. The Frenchman didn’t flinch.

“Good, I ‘ave your attention now.” He gestured for Scout to come closer. “We only ‘ave a few minutes ‘ere unmonitored. Stay conscious. Zis is important. Once you respawn, all zis knowledge will be gone.” 

Scout glanced between them. “The fuck is going on?”

The spies stared at each other.

“Did zey ever solve ze recall paradox?” RED Spy asked.

BLU Spy looked at him without blinking.

>No.

“Dieu merci.” RED Spy slumped forward and took a long drag on his cigarette.

“What does that mean?” Scout tore off his hat and crushed it in his hands. “What the fuck is even going on?”

Spy saw the gleam in RED Spy’s eyes.

>No.  
>No.

RED Spy leaned over and pulled the wires out of Spy’s throat.

>N

“It means,” he said, “we ‘ave a chance to end zis.”


	21. Chapter 21

The desert had transformed overnight.

Spy stood on the rooftop and lit his first cigarette of the day. The horizon smouldered red and though the sun hadn’t risen, he could feel heat already seeping through the ground and into his shoes. A light breeze brought some respite. He studied the desert slopes surrounding the compound. What had been mud before had turned into broad swaths of red, purple, and yellow flowers. Their fragrances mixed with the taste of his cigarette. Poison sweet.

Eyes were on him.

He turned and squinted across the divide between the RED and BLU bases. Sniper stood on the roof with a coffee in hand and rifle slung across his back. He raised his mug once, then turned and disappeared amongst the sharp angles of the base’s roofline.

Spy finished his first cigarette and was about to start another when footsteps echoed up the stairwell behind him. Rapid and tinny like gunfire. He turned and lit his second smoke as the door burst open. Scout tumbled out and spun around, arms up.

“It ain’t like that, man. I swear!”

BLU Sniper emerged from the stairwell’s shadowy interior like a vision. He looked pale and unshaven. The blast of body odour confirmed that he hadn’t showered in some time. His eyes were as flat and hard as glass, and his mouth was a pulled back into an angry rictus.

Both turned to see Spy snap his lighter shut and shove it into his jacket pocket. “Gentlemen,” he said, “to what do I owe de ‘onuor?”

Scout continued to back away. “I ain’t no traitor, man. I ain’t done nothing.”

Sniper stepped forward, kukri reflecting a slice of sunlight. “Caught this one in my scope. He was talking to that RED spook. Talking for a long time.” His eyes bore into Spy’s skull. “Figured you’d already know.”

Spy’s eyebrow twitched. “I was dead. Some dings may ‘ave escaped my notice.”

“Yea, I heard.” Sniper turned back to Scout. “You have something to do with that too?”

“What?” Scout screeched. “You’re crazy, man. You’re fucking crazy.”

Spy laughed. “Of course not. You couldn’t keep a secret if your life depended on it.” He finished his cigarette and flicked it over the side. “Which makes me wonder why on earth de RED spy would speak to you in de first place.” He paused just long enough for Scout to turn white. “Unless, of course, it’s because you’re his whelp?”

Sniper froze. “He’s that poofter’s son?”

Spy lit his third cigarette. “Allegedly.” He exhaled a toxic bloom of smoke. “It would be unfortunate if Soldier found out.”

“And why wouldn’t he find out?” Sniper eyes glittered under the brim of his hat.

“Hey, back the fuck off man.” Scout raised his bat and inched towards the roof’s edge. “I’m telling you. I don’t wanna kill you, but I will if I have to.” He glared at Spy. “And I ain’t the only one keeping secrets either.”

Sniper’s eyes cut to Spy, then back to Scout. “Yea, I figure they do. But wot I want to know is how much pain you’re going to take to keep your dad’s?”

“He ain’t my fucking dad!”

Spy held up his hand. “Sniper, please. Leave dis with me. I’ll take care of it.”

For a moment, Sniper didn’t move. Then he nodded and sheathed his kukri. “On your head, then.” He gave Scout one last look before leaving down the stairs.

A long pause yawned between them. Scout lowered his bat and left the ledge. “So you’re not gonna ask me about it?”

Spy turned back towards the desert. “Just go.”

“Seriously? Cuz I—”

“Go.”

Scout frowned at him, but disappeared down the stairwell. His cleats echoed loudly until he passed beyond Spy’s hearing.

He waited a moment more before speaking. “Does it ‘urt when ‘e denies you, or ‘ave you grown used to it?”

RED Spy appeared in a swirl of smoke. The smell of gunpowder overwhelmed the rooftop for a moment before being dispersed by the wind. “You could’ve forced my ‘and. What game are you playing?”

Spy turned to face him. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m offering you a deal.” He flicked his cigarette and ash whirled away. “Your stupidity ‘as put your son in danger. I can protect ‘im when you can’t.”

“‘e’s not a child. ‘e can take care of ‘imself.” RED Spy lit his own cigarette. “You’ve got nothing to bargain with.”

“You know what Soldier and Sniper are capable of. What I’m capable of.” Spy regarded his counterpart with a bland expression. “Would you risk it?”

RED Spy looked at him for a long time. “That depends on what you want in return.”

“Your forbearance.” Spy glanced at the RED base. “Dat Australian of yours. Stay away from ‘im. For dat, I’ll protect your son.”

“You want me to sell out my own teammate?”

Spy examined his cigarette for a moment, then tossed it over the side. The sun’s crown rose above the horizon in a white-hot arch and scalded his back.

“Oh, please.” He waved his hand. “‘e can’t even shower in de base because of you. Don’t get sentimental for ‘is sake now.”

RED Spy tugged on his left glove. “So if I leave ‘im be, you’ll protect ze BLU Scout? Zat’s it?”

“Oui.”

“Zat’s good of you.”

Spy reached into his coat pocket, which made his counterpart tense. He smiled as he took out his disguise kit, plucked a cigarette out with his lips, and cocked his head over his lighter’s wind-battered flame. He snapped it shut and slipped both back into his jacket.

“Oui,” he said. “Take advantage of it while you can.”

RED Spy nodded slowly. “And I’m simply to trust your word?”

“Am I to trust yours?” Spy yawned into his hand. “I get what I want by keeping Scout safe, and I do like getting what I want. If you trust nothing else, trust dat.”

“If I don’t? If I decide not to accept zis…deal of yours?”

Spy smiled. “Den I get a new toy.”

RED Spy raised his head, but his eyes had lost focus. “To zink ‘e actually admires you.”

“Sniper?”

He shook his head. “My son.”

Spy shrugged as his counterpart vanished in a swirl of red smoke. Footsteps echoed softly down the stairwell, but the Alarm-O-Tron didn’t start. When he saw RED Spy appear again across the bridge, he exhaled shakily and let his shoulders slump. Sweat had already begun to soak into his mask and shirt, and the day’s heat had barely began.

A headache bloomed behind his eyes. He rubbed his forehead and glanced at the cracked cement under his feet. It was only then he noticed a small red dot planted on his midriff. He glanced up to see nothing visible along RED’s roofline.

Spy gave a two-fingered salute to the empty roofline. The red dot bobbed once, then disappeared.

The desert flowers simmered in the distance. He left the rooftop, glad for the cool sweep of air inside the stairwell. Scout stood at the bottom, hands tucked into his pockets.

“Hey.” When Spy didn’t slow down, he kept pace. “What the fuck was that?”

Spy brushed past without a glance.

“Fucking listen to me.” Scout turned and physically blocked his path. “Why does nobody fucking listen to me?”

Spy shot him a narrow look. “If you insist on betraying BLU, do so out of sight.”

Scout squared his shoulders. “Fuck you, man. That ain’t what it’s about.”

“It doesn’t matter what it’s about. Dat’s what it looks like.”

“I wouldn’t throw everybody into the shit like that.” He bent forward like he was going to vomit. “I wouldn’t do that, man. Even if he asked me. I wouldn’t do it.”

Spy exhaled a bloom of toxic smoke. “Oui.”

Scout ground his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I gotta ask you something.” He looked up, short of breath. “Is that guy really my dad?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah, it does.” Scout gulped air like a dying fish. “It really fucking does.”

Spy threw his cigarette on the floor and crushed it under his shoe. He plucked another out of his disguise and offered it to Scout. No one else was in the hall, but he still felt naked.

“You were born while ‘e was in Indonesia,” he said. “I suspect your mother kept dis a secret for both your sakes.”

Scout ignored the cigarette and punched the wall. His second knuckle made an audible pop. “I fucking hate this place.”

Spy squeezed Scout’s shoulder, then continued down the hall.


	22. Chapter 22

The desert was cold and dark at 1:30 in the morning. A coyote howled in the distance, then fell silent. RED Sniper sat drinking a beer by his camper, feet propped up against the fire pit. He stared into the flames, hat tilted back.

“Hope you brought your own beer,” he said.

Spy uncloaked and stepped out from behind the camper. “I did.” He held up a bottle. “I’ll get de drop on you yet.”

Sniper chuffed. “You’ll have to stop smoking first. I can smell you a mile away.”

“Let’s not be too drastic.” Spy sat down in the lawn chair left for him.

They drank in silence for a while. Sniper occasionally stood up and fed the fire with pieces of old crates. Spy watched the tarp undulate overhead. A lone coyote started howling on and off again. 

“Meant to thank you, too.” Sniper sat down with a grunt. “Haven’t been bothered since this morning. Think wot you said to RED Spy worked. So…yea. Thanks.”

Spy shrugged and lit a cigarette. “Every man ‘as ‘is price.”

“Mm.”

He exhaled a jet of smoke and studied it. His hand trembled for a few heartbeats, stopped, and then began again.

Sniper watched from the corner of his eye. “When that start?”

“After I died.” Spy studied his hand without expression. “I was stuck in respawn for dree days. Fucked up my reflexes, too.”

“Christ.” Sniper sipped his beer. “I’d heard rumours about BLU’s respawn, but—never thought it’d be that bad.” He sat up straight. “Are you still in the system?”

Spy merely smiled at him. “We’ll all ‘ave to play for keeps eventually.”

“Should’ve told me, you wanker. I nearly killed you today.”

“Dat’s de point.”

“The point is to do your job, get paid, and get out.” Sniper exhaled harshly and lit his own cigarette. “You’re not even 30. You’ve got no business carting around a death wish.”

Spy stared at the fire. “Can’t kill anyone who won’t respawn?”

“Killed enough stupid young blokes before this job and I’m not getting paid to start now.”

“No?”

Sniper pointed his beer towards RED base. “I’m paid to protect a patch of dirt and a briefcase. Wouldn’t do my bank account any good if I ran out of blokes to shoot. Besides, they might replace you with someone I can’t smell a mile away.” 

Spy threw back his head and laughed. “Says de man who stores ‘is piss in jars.” 

“I wash my hands after.” 

“Bullshit.”

Sniper chuffed. “Least I haven’t thrown one at you.”

“Let’s keep it dat way, shall we?” Spy glared at him. “I won’t be ‘appy washing dat out of my clothes.”

“Alright then.” Sniper rubbed his chin, mouth curling into a smile. “If I give you a pass on jarate, then you have to stop those godawful one-liners before you stab me.”

Spy crossed his arms and scowled. “Fine. Ruin all my fun.”

“You’re ruining mine,” Sniper retorted.

“You enjoy collecting piss and tossing it at people?”

“Yea.” He took a long drag. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Disgusting.”

He only laughed and relaxed deeper into his chair. After taking one last drag, he threw his cigarette into the pit and balanced his bottle of Red Shed on his belly.

Spy watched him for a moment, then stared into the flames. “What will you do after your contract ends?”

Sniper pursed his lips. “Mm, dunno. Retire somewhere quiet. Learn to golf, maybe.”

“Golf?” Spy nearly spat out his own cigarette. “You?”

“Wot? Wot’s wrong with golf?”

It took a moment for Spy to respond. He pinched the bridge of his nose and laughed.

“Nothing,” he said, shoulders shaking. “I’ll just never get dat out of my ‘ead.” 

Sniper smiled wryly. “My backswing?”

“You in a clean shirt.”

“Oh, piss off.”

Spy laughed harder. “Wearing a little flat cap.” He mimed a golf swing with his beer. “Playing a gentleman’s game.”

“Prick,” Sniper said, then started laughing, too.

They shared a glance. The fire had died down. Spy set his beer aside, got up, and threw on another piece of crate. It spat and crackled, and a sheet of sparks rose with the smoke.

“I ‘aven’t done dat since I was a boy,” he confessed. 

Sniper’s eyes flicked up and down his silhouette. “It’s good for a man to be outside.”

“So I can develop a manly physique?” Spy sat back down and tapped his cigarette.

“No, you wanker.” Sniper chuffed. “Get away from the lights and drama. Enjoy the quiet for a bit, yea?”

Spy retrieved his beer and stretched his legs towards the fire pit. “I suppose.”

The corner of Sniper’s mouth quirked. “Don’t like the quiet?”

“I don’t like the dirt.”

Sniper laughed. “You’re worse than a girl, y’know that?”

“Fuck you.” Spy took a drag on his cigarette. “Dis is an expensive suit.”

“And wot made you think a poncey suit would work out here?”

He scowled. “I like my poncey suits, dank you. I don’t need camouflage with my watch and kit.”

“Maybe not,” Sniper said, “but it holds onto the reek of your cancer sticks.”

“Fortunately for me, few of your teammates use their sense of smell.”

He chuckled and sipped his beer. “Or any sense.” 

“Oui,” Spy said and held his hand up against the firelight. It had stopped trembling.


End file.
